Prologue
Only five-feet-two, the little man suddenly appeared at the warehouse door. He pointed a semiautomatic at Rashad. With a second to spare, Rashad took off running. But the shorter man was faster. He whizzed past him, threw up his legs, and kicked Rashad in his back. He crashed into a mountain of boxes filled with heavy material. His kneecap got banged up, and he cursed and yelled while spread out on the dusty floor.
The man quickly stood over Rashad. He aimed the pistol again. Rashad stared at the weapon and struggled to lift his hands. “What did I do? What do you want?”
The man said nothing. He gaped at Rashad with no visible emotion.
“Hey, man, I’m talking to you. You want money? You can have my debit cards, my credit cards.”
“Don’t want money. But you are who I want.”
An electronic voice changer made his attacker sound peculiar. A low, evil-pitched tone that uttered frightening words. Rashad’s mouth felt dry as he shouted, “Why are you doing this? Who are you?”
“Just call me Death.”
“W-what?”
Rashad then realized this wasn’t a simple robbery. It was something much more sinister. The man was so short and slight that Rashad thought he could take him. His attacker noticed a metal folding chair nearby on the ground. He pointed the pistol at Rashad and ordered him to pick it up and sit down. Rashad started to obey him. But on a whim, he reached for the leg of the chair. He yelled with all his might and swung at the guy.
“You motherfucking asshole!” he screamed. He bashed him in his temple. His attacker was temporarily stunned and rocked on his feet. Then he fired a wild shot; a bullet pierced Rashad’s leg.
Blood poured from his left calf; his dark slacks turned red. Rashad yelled, “Fuck. Ugh!” The pain was excruciating.
The attacker set the chair upright and pointed at it. He motioned at Rashad, who immediately responded. Wincing in agony, he lowered himself onto the seat. It felt uncomfortable as hell. He moaned as he tried to stop the blood from spilling. His hands turned red and felt sticky. He removed his jacket and placed it over the wound.
The man moved to stand next to Rashad; he calmly pressed the steel tip of the barrel against his head.
“You are Rashad Quintelle Eason. And a woman asked me to send a message to you.”
“A woman?” he asked, his voice trembling. Blood oozed and drenched his shoes. This was unbelievable, and he could barely think. “W-what are you talking about?”
The man’s piercing black eyes blinked rapidly.
“She said to ask, ‘Why did you let Satan use you like you did?’”
“What woman? This is crazy. I-I don’t know what you’re—”
“She said you should know everything that she’s talking about.”
“But who is she?”
“Shut the fuck up. Right now.”
The little man skillfully duct-taped Rashad’s hands securely behind his back. Rashad was losing more blood; he slumped in the chair. It felt like he was about to keel over on the floor. His mind was foggy, his tongue thick. This was his worst nightmare.
Rashad tried to take deep breaths, but it was hard. His heart pounded like he’d just run twenty miles without stopping. He badly wanted to get the hell away, and he struggled to loosen his hands from the tape.
“Please, sir, please.”
The man ignored him. He reached in the rear pocket of Rashad’s blue jeans and removed his wallet.
Then he wound a wide, dark piece of cloth around Rashad’s eyes. It felt tight and unmerciful. He felt like a blind man when everything went dark. His shirt was cold and wet against his skin. Was this some type of joke? Was someone trying to scare him just to make a point?
He sat in horrid anticipation. Soon he felt his mouth being pried open with tiny, rigid fingers. A thick sock was stuffed inside his mouth. It took away his saliva; he tried to cough but couldn’t. The fibers from the cloth absorbed all the liquid from his mouth; the dryness made him want to vomit.
This was the most uncomfortable Rashad had ever felt in his life. He could not conceive what was happening. Who is this guy? Am I about to die?
As Rashad grew weaker, he recalled the man referring to a woman in his life. For a moment, he felt sorry . . . sorry for things that were too late to change.
The black steel pistol was shoved harder against Rashad’s temple.
Rashad slumped in his seat.
I wish I could . . . I wish I could get my . . . my cell phone . . . make a call . . . talk to the people that I . . . my kids . . . the family that I love.
But Rashad knew those wishes might not ever come true.
Beeva. Mama.
He knew his mom was crazy about him. And she’d be brokenhearted.
Nicky. My ride or die. Oooohhh God.
A weird animal sound escaped from his mouth as he silently sobbed in front of the man he could no longer see.
The man only laughed.
Rashad wanted to open his mouth and scream. But the darkness grew darker. He stopped crying.
Jesus. God, help me.
Seconds later a loud blast sounded in the hollowness of the room. The pain in Rashad’s head made it feel like he was going blind, it hurt so terribly. Instantly, a fountain of blood poured from his head and formed a dark red pool on the ground beneath him. He fell over in a heap with the chair still attached to his body.
Rashad lay on the floor and took his last breath. He nursed one thought as he transitioned into eternity: Why?