24

It felt like the longest drive of Whistler’s life. He was nervous, but he refused to show it. Deuce was behind the wheel of the Suburban and Whistler sat shotgun. Jimmy sat behind him with a gun aimed at the back of his head. Everything felt tense. Whistler didn’t know if he would live or die tonight. The counterfeit money had pissed them off, but he had nothing to do with it. He didn’t see that one coming.

They were on I-95, going south toward Maryland. It was late and cold. Whistler couldn’t help but to think that at any moment, his brains and blood could be splattered all over the front seat. But they wouldn’t be so stupid to commit a murder in public like that, while driving. But they were taking him somewhere—maybe to be interrogated. Wherever it was, it would not be nice.

An hour later, they were in a rural area in Maryland, about thirty-five minutes away from Baltimore. It was nothing but farmland, trees, and back roads. Whistler couldn’t help but to think that they’d brought him out there to be killed and buried where no one would find him. Anyway, who would even come looking? He had no one.

There was a house on the property a half-mile from the main road. The place had history; it was a former plantation home built in the early 1800’s. It was haunted by the countless slaves who had lost their lives on the land. The two-story house was well maintained and had two floors and a wraparound porch, and it seemed vacant.

Deuce brought the truck to a stop near the house and climbed out.

Jimmy forced Whistler out of the vehicle by gunpoint. “Get the fuck out, muthafucka!”

“Just take it easy, Jimmy,” Whistler replied calmly.

“Nigga, I’ll shoot you dead right here. You’re lucky Deuce still wants you alive.”

At Jimmy’s forceful behest, Whistler exited the Suburban and looked around. The darkness of the area surrounded them. For miles there was nothingness. The cold was crippling, but neither Deuce nor Jimmy looked chilly. The anger they felt had them heated.

Deuce walked ahead. Jimmy pointed the gun at Whistler’s head and said, “Walk, nigga!”

Whistler ambled toward the front entrance. He ascended the stairs one by one and stepped onto the large porch. He could hear every one of his footsteps loudly—like they were signaling that they would be his last.

Inside, there was nothing—no furniture, no remnants of a cozy home. It was dark and even colder than outside. Whistler saw a folding chair in the middle of the room atop some clear tarp covering the floors. He already knew what it was. It was a killing zone. It was a place where people were brought to be questioned and tortured. Whistler knew his chances of leaving the place alive were zero. He turned back to look at Jimmy, and Jimmy had a smirk on his face. He had done this plenty of times. Like him, Jimmy was a calculated and cold-blooded killer. Whistler knew if the shoe were on the other foot, Jimmy wouldn’t survive either. But the shoe wasn’t on the other foot, and Whistler was in a sad predicament that seemed inescapable.

The door closed, and Deuce turned and looked at him. “You know I bought this place five years ago? It used to be a plantation during slavery times. Imagine the stories this place could tell, from the slaves that died here to the people we killed,” Deuce said.

Whistler stood there quietly. He wasn’t in the mood to hear stories, but Deuce didn’t care.

“You know, my ancestors used to be slaves on this plantation. Imagine that—the shit they went through—what their masters did to them. My grandmother told me about this place, and I remember sayin’ to myself, ‘I could kill those white masters with my bare hands.’”

Deuce paced around Whistler while Jimmy looked on.

“A white family used to own this land—the land my family slaved over and were killed on. I offered to buy it from them, but they wouldn’t sell it to me. They looked at me like I had some audacity to make them an offer. The husband—I saw it in his eyes—no matter how much money I had, I would always be a fuckin’ nigger to him! Here we are, a hundred and sumthin’ years after slavery, and this white muthafucka is still lookin’ at me like he’s better than me. So one night, I had my boys pay them a visit, and it wasn’t a friendly one. The husband, he had a beautiful family—three daughters and a pretty wife too. We beat the fuck out of him, and I made him sign over the deed to me. I mean, with a gun to his head and his family’s lives in danger, the muthafucka didn’t have a choice.”

Deuce continued to pace around the barren room telling his story. Whistler wanted to know where this was going.

Deuce moved closer to Whistler and continued with, “Oh, my goons had some fun that night. They raped all three of his daughters right there in front of him—tore those white snowflakes up with big, black dicks. And the sound that man made, seeing his daughters’ pussies being spread open and enjoyed by niggers and nothing he could do about it—that muthafucka cried like I never heard anyone cry before. I just stood there and watched it all play out. It was like watching Roots in reverse. And his wife? Oh, she was saved for last. My goons ran a train on her—beating and fucking her at the same time. You see, all night we fucked these white people up, and I remember thinking about the pain my ancestors felt from their family—the feeling of helplessness and not being able to protect their families—their wives. So I made this white muthafucka feel the same way. I took sumthin’ from him, and I enjoyed it. And when my men were done wit’ those white bitches, I cut their throats and watched them bleed out like gutted pigs. All night that man cried and begged. I watched his soul being ripped away, and it made him want to die. And I gave him his wish. The payback felt good.”

Whistler didn’t care for the story. It wasn’t how he got down. It was an old slave house—who gave a fuck?

“You see, this is a very special place to me, Whistler. And I only bring special people here. And you, muthafucka, are special,” Deuce said. “That family is buried right here on this sacred land as trophies, and you, nigga, are about to be added to my collection.”

They forced Whistler to sit in the folding chair. Jimmy still held him at gunpoint. Deuce stood over him and removed his coat and shirt, showing off his large muscles in a wifebeater. Whistler frowned. He had nothing to say. Was this his fate—dying on some old farm with family history? Even if he could run, where would he go? It seemed like they were in the middle of nowhere.

Before Deuce could get started with the interrogation, his cell phone rang. He answered the call. Jimmy stood on the side, frowning at Whistler. He couldn’t wait to kill this man.

“What the fuck you talkin’ about!” they both heard Deuce scream into his cell phone.

“How many?” Deuce yelled. “How the fuck they find it?”

Deuce’s hand was clenched so tightly around the cell phone he nearly broke the thing into pieces. He curtailed the phone call and charged toward Whistler in a heated rage. He punched Whistler, knocking him off the chair and crashing onto the floor. Whistler spit out blood.

“Hold that nigga down!” Deuce shouted.

Jimmy didn’t miss a beat. He grabbed Whistler into a tight chokehold. “What the fuck going on, Deuce? What happened?”

“Everyone’s dead!”

“What the fuck you mean?”

“There was surprise attack at the warehouse we just left. It’s a bloodbath over there.”

It was shocking news to Jimmy. There was only one person to blame, and they had him right in their grasp. But Whistler was taken aback, too. He had nothing to do with it. But they wouldn’t believe him.

Right away, Deuce hammered his fists into Whistler with head shots and body shots. His face bruised heavily, and he spit and coughed out more blood. His body felt like it had gone through a grinder.

“You set us up, muthafucka!” Deuce howled at Whistler. “Jimmy, kill this fool!”

Jimmy stepped toward Whistler with the gun and was ready to blast away.

Whistler turned and looked defeated. This was it! But he wasn’t going out without pleading his case.

“I didn’t set you up, Deuce. It wasn’t me!” he shouted.

They didn’t believe him.

“Look, you like trophies right? I can get you that bitch for your trophy case,” Whistler said.

The words caught Deuce’s attention, and he halted Jimmy from executing Whistler. “What bitch you talkin’ about?”

“Lucky West—and Layla. I can bring them both to you alive—mother and daughter,” Whistler said.

“You lying to live. Why would they trust you?”

“Look, I know everything about Lucky. You take her hostage, and then I can get you her mother, and you can have them both and hold them in exchange for Scott.”

Deuce glared at him and said, “Why should I fuckin’ trust you?”

“Because that wasn’t me at the warehouse. I didn’t kill your men. Scott and Bugsy set that up somehow—the fake cash. Just think . . . maybe we were followed. Tracked somehow? They knew you would come for it. Scott’s smart, and believe me, he’ll keep coming for you no matter what. You gonna need me to figure him out. I know him. I know his family.”

Deuce was listening. Maybe Whistler was still better off alive than dead. Could he still be useful?

Jimmy wanted to shoot him, but he could tell Deuce was changing his mind. “You gonna believe this muthafucka, Deuce? He can’t be trusted.”

“We lost a lot of men tonight, Jimmy,” said Deuce.

“And? I don’t fuckin’ trust this nigga!”

“He’ll have his day, Jimmy, but for now, I need him alive. I want payback on that entire family. The rules have changed. We keep him on a tight leash. We lure in them bitches and take out the rest.”

Deuce crouched near a beaten and defeated Whistler. “Look at you, nigga. You went from a king to a fuckin’ peasant. I did this to you! And don’t you forget it. You bring me those bitches. You make this right, and maybe we’ll kill you fast.”

“You have my word. I’ll bring you Lucky and Layla,” Whistler said with assurance.

“Punk muthafucka,” Jimmy uttered with contempt. “Your nine lives are running out fast, and I’m gonna be the one to skin the fuckin’ cat.”

Whistler ignored him. He had been reprieved for now. His gift of gab had saved his life. Now, he had to get in contact with Lucky and get back into her life somehow. It was easier said than done.