Addicted In Cold Blood (2 page)

Carter was low-key. No one would suspect the seemingly shy family man and freelance preacher to be a big time drug leader, having his will and way with the street peddling thugs willing to do his bidding for mere chump change on the seedier streets of Maryland. According to the men under his thumb, Xzion had arrived from Columbia, bringing a slew of  hard to obtain ‘Rich White Girl’ with him and causing clientele to come so fast that demand was no longer able to be met. He’d provided his information, receipts, and spoke English so well, that his slight Latin accent was of no concern or hindrance. It was all in the programming—making him all the more believable.

Xzion had been trained, groomed and studied under the watchful, strict eye of President Aton, on his planet Zarkstorm. Xzion’s appearance made him a chameleon of sorts, at least amongst his human peers. He could ‘pass’ for so many nationalities, it afforded him blending abilities that truly came in handy as he toured the globe. He had every language and dialect down pat.

Wherever he went, he was more times than not mistaken for a local, which made him a Zarkstormian dream come true with physically matched vague physical specifications—tall Hispanic male was all anyone could grapple onto, and even that was at times up for debate and questionable. He could pass for Italian and Latin if need be, but his original programming, due to his first assignment, was Columbian…and that was what he stuck to, paying homage to the place that gave him birth by fire. He’d been shot at and almost beheaded more than once while in the unruly areas of the country. In that jungle, he’d had his very first taste of human homicide as he navigated the volatile, high-stake drug cartel. He’d almost lost his life due to the rigorous demands and never wished to come that close to termination again. So he took precautions.

His father was a proud, highly-regarded Zarkstormian warrior and his mother a revered academic, a professor at the military college. His parents enlisted him immediately into the same schooling they’d received, but soon found out that Aton took a special interest in their first born child—much more than he’d taken in any other pupil in years past. The reasoning: upon diagnostic analysis of the young man, it was found he could kill swift and clean, just like his father. An admirable trait, more so because he didn’t suffer from the same limitations of the Earthly climate controls, as his forefathers had.

After years of failed attempts, Zarkstorm finally had a survivor in their mists. He seemed far more resistant to the changing world temperatures, and his existence proved to be a win-win situation for all of his people. This was not the only gift he had, however.

Xzion had an uncanny ability to mimic any and all emotions and personas around him—to become loose, less robotic in his mannerisms, and slide into almost any scene without alerting a suspicious eye. The total opposite of his normal self, but he managed just the same. He made people feel comfortable and at ease. It was
this
ability, to pretend to have apathy, humor and humility, which would score him big assignments and land him right here, completing the final leg of his worldwide takedown—the United States of America...

Xzion slowly rose from the couch and made his way into the mildewed bathroom. It didn’t help that the damn temperature was completely inconsistent, but he maintained and persevered. He looked around, his nasal passages on overload from the damp, stagnant confines. He abhorred the neighborhood, the area, and his temporary residence but for this particular venture, he had to appear as if he were an immigrant trying to keep a low profile. In some ways, that was true. It was imperative that after his work was done for each hit, he stay out of the limelight. The police didn’t know what he looked like or what he was doing, and if he wanted to keep it that way, he had to stay the course. Within hours, he’d learned the necessary vernacular and was able to name drop with the greatest of ease—making his slated victims feel more relaxed, thus letting the treacherous entity in closer, dangerously closer.

Xzion leaned over the sink, turned on the cold water and splashed his face. Opening the medicine cabinet, he removed a razor and shaving cream. Over the next few minutes, he meticulously went over his hard jawbone, removing all remnants of black stubble, leaving behind only a well-trimmed goatee that he’d shave completely off after the assignment was complete.

He ran his hand over his skin, looked himself over and walked to the small bedroom. Past the full sized bed with threadbare white sheets, he entered the diminutive closet, rummaging until he found a button down black shirt, dark pants and a pair of Aldo Arkin shoes to match. No matter what, he had a real issue with wearing cheap shoes. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Upward, on a shelf past the swinging lamp chord, sat his ebony fedora hat with a small red feather. A wicked grin formed as he placed it atop his grown out dark locks, relishing what was to come. He grabbed his favorite cologne,
Acqua Di Gio
, and splashed it along his neck and face. Back in the living room, he sat down on the couch and propped his feet onto the peg-legged coffee table. The television played old, ‘America’s Funniest Home Videos’, not giving him much mirth.

This shit is fucking corny...

Xzion now enjoyed profanity. He picked up the habit after years of observation and immolation and began to use it without a second thought. Whether he was doing it in French, Spanish, Italian, Mandarin, Swahili or English, he enjoyed it immensely—nonsensical words designed to be negative, yet, eliciting, at the very least, an internal laugh every single time.

He lifted up his right shirt sleeve. Pressing deeply into a knotty blue vein on his wrist, he caused a small rectangular section of his skin to open, exposing a miniscule computer that resembled the face of a watch.

He picked up the remote control, muted the television and waited...

“Greetings, Xzion...” came a deep, vibrating synthesized voice that within seconds became clearer and more human in intonation.

“Greetings, Aton. Reporting.”

“Time of take off?”

“Twenty-one hundred hours.”

“Identify the parties.”

“Lewis Carter, AKA, ‘The Preacher’. His best man, BK, will not be in attendance tonight—he was picked up by the local police on an unrelated charge. They’ve been in operation since 1993. Five layer tier. Three main runners—Greg, AKA ‘Granite’, Mike, AKA ‘AK-47’ and Willie, AKA ‘Slicky.’”

“Elimination plan?”

“Two of them smoke their own supply so no mind control would be productive due to drug intake and influence. Additionally, I need to signal a warning.”

“Warning?”

“I will use their demise to teach a lesson, as I’ve done with the latest ones...all of them will be terminated.”

“I want you in and out and I want the
Baltimore assignment wrapped up soon but this sounds a bit more complicated since it consists of more than one or two targets simultaneously. This is a group. What additional time is needed?”

“None. Infiltration is complete, though the leader more than likely will attempt to test and possibly rob me. It’s customary.” Xzion shrugged. “Tonight is it...no additional time needed.”

“Don’t worry about your current environment. I know it is not conducive to your existing temperature issues, but your next location will more than meet your needs after this operation is terminated. I have even thrown in some perks, for your pleasure. You have given us great hope, Xzion. By this time, the others that preceded you would have all been sick or worse, dead. The fact that you are still very much alive and working pays homage to your extraordinary genetic material, training and skill. You deserve this. We have someone taking care of it; your home is in the process of final customization.”

Despite the repeated nightly ice baths, Xzion at times felt sick to his stomach, unable to keep from over-heating as of late. During his last assignment, he incurred a hellacious fever that almost caused him to pass out. The computer chips in his arm and brain were misfiring, causing tiny seizures in his sleep and occasionally debilitating pain that would force him to soak for hours in baths of ice after taking out another cocaine chief, pill peddler or heroin Highness. The Earth was doing a number on him but he hung tough, to the best of his ability. He needed a cure just like everyone else and some days were worse than others, but he had no choice. Lives depended upon it.

He sighed in displeasure, eagerly anticipating getting into a calmer area, relishing the thought of once and for all being able to move into his temperature controlled new digs. From his upbringing, Xzion was used to luxury and he’d worked his ass off to obtain everything that he had. Nothing came for free or without hard work. Yet he understood the nature of his job, and not everything would be comfy and cozy.

“Yes, I understand, Aton.”

“Report back once mission is complete.”

And then the wrist-imbedded phone went dead.

Xzion grabbed the car keys off the tilted kitchen table and headed out the apartment to his 1994 dirty white Honda Accord. The outside winter breeze blew briskly across his face and the coolness felt delightful...

****

Xzion lowered his dark hat, pulling it down across his eyes to block the full gaze from others. Cool air curled out from between his parted lips in the icy winter zephyr. Seven inches of snow layered the sidewalks and a long line of men waited impatiently to go in the jam-packed, popular titty bar. Once the search and seizure was over, he was allowed to enter and became immediately inundated with a red light, a haze of copious cigarette smoke and Notorious B.I.G rapping, “Ready To Die.”  Soon, the tune came to an end, replaced with, 50 Cent’s, ‘Definition of Sexy’.  Incoherent, drunken purls were in earshot as he glanced through the nasty swirls of thick marijuana smolder. The cloudy surfs grinded against each other as if fucking and once the misty love dance ended, he made out a beautiful woman with a long, cherry red wig, twisting and twirling in an erotic dance on the stage...

He glanced at her, his eyes seizing the seductive movements, but quickly regrouped. Out of the corner of his eye, he peeped the V.I.P section where he was headed, but he needed just one more moment...just one minute to watch the dancer finish her set. He even found himself putting his finger up to some invisible person—asking for just a second or two to watch this tall, brown angel move about on the white lit stage. Her skin glistened with oils and glitter. As he zoomed in on her gyrating hips, she popped them from side to side as if on cue and his chest caved just a bit as she leapt onto the pole, holding on to it with her strong inner thighs before snaking down the damn thing, humping it—rendering the salivating men in lust-filled states, periods of sexually-induced delirium as they shouted obscenities and salacious words. She only gave a slight smile, seemingly lost in her own hidden world. Her dark brown eyes glistened under the strobing lights.  She made his dick incredibly hard...but it was time to go, time to push this distraction out of his mind.

He broke away from the trance and made his way over to the V.I.P. section, where his awaiting crowd had gathered. Pausing, he honed his infrared vision on the center member and identified him through his right eye, receiving his vitals like red, blinking credits on a black screen:

Subject identified as: Lewis Carter, thirty-seven, 6’1,
194 lbs, currently carrying three weapons: Remington 870, Beretta 92 and a Glock 17.

Obviously, they let this motherfucker and his affiliates come on in, any way they wish...

He’d left his weapons in the car after noticing the repeated pat-downs and quickly scanned the men huddled around him in the red booth under a halo of crimson light that made the brown skinned bunch burn with ember highlights like lit cigarette cinders. Half naked beautiful women gyrated around them. Their eyes fixated on the rounded, twirling asses as the D.J. now played a custom blend of Baltimore Club music.

“Pop-Lock and Drop It! Pop-Lock and Drop It!” over booming, earsplitting baselines.

Xzion took quick inventory before he arrived at the table. “Smith and Wesson 29, Colt Pistol times two, Springfield 1903 and three blades.”

They stay strapped. Too bad it won’t help them...

Grinning widely, he slapped hands with his new friends as he took a seat. Carter immediately shot him a look, abruptly pushing a curvy dark haired stripper out of the way and causing her to stumble as her knee turned inward in the six inch silver stilettos. He smirked, showing a diamond in his front tooth. Xzion watched him run his long dark fingers over the tabletop before one hand disappeared behind the table.

On the defensive... Cute.

“’Sup!” Slicky nodded in Xzion’s direction then immediately faced Carter, his boss. “Hey man, this is the dude, Cortez, man... Hooked us up with the Rich White Girl. Glad you could make it, we can all have a nice chit chat,” Slicky announced, a muscular medium brown skinned man with short curly hair and pocked skin. He moved a thick blunt away from his mouth, allowing spins of dense smoke to escape and blend into the dank air.

“Don’t nobody get shit fuh free.” Carter slicked his tongue over his fleshy, dark top lip and leaned back, not taking his eyes off of Xzion. The fake persona was immediately dismissed. Far from shy, he let his ribs show, exposing himself completely to Xzion. “Yeah, you been with my guys here for about a
mont’ now, got in good with ’em. Let them hang with you but what about your distributors?”