Hard Candy Saga (17 page)

With his back against the cold steel of the door, Tuck slid down to the floor.

Candice did the same on the opposite side of the door.

Tuck sat on the floor for a few minutes. Candy was an enigma. Until the incident with the gun, he hadn't realized just how little he knew about her. He rushed into his bedroom and yanked open his nightstand drawer. He pulled out his government laptop and his system key code token.

Tuck pecked on the keys feverishly until he was logged into the system. He had already recorded Candy's plate number in his head when he had helped her into her car by the hospital. He'd done it out of instinct, rather than an actual need to know.

He punched the letters and numbers into the query screen. He drummed his fingers on the keyboard anxiously as the system worked to retrieve the information. Finally, the screen popped up. He received one hit. He double-clicked on the hit. The name
JOSEPH BARTON
flashed across the screen. Tuck read the name, drawing a blank.
Maybe it's her father's car.
Certainly, no one that he knew in the drug game carried that name. Tuck pecked at a few more keys. An address came up, along with a date of birth and an entire criminal history. Things were not looking good.

“Joseph Barton, aka ‘Rock,'” Tuck read aloud. He scrolled down on the screen. “DEA notes Barton's connection to Eric ‘Easy' Hardaway.”

There was a note in the system about surveillance tapes showing them together.
If Hardaway made a deal with the DEA, where the hell does Candy fit into all this? More importantly, why is she driving the car of a man who is connected to Junior's former dead boss, Eric Hardaway?

Tuck needed to learn more about Easy Hardaway's biographic history. He knew his wife and kids had been murdered. But what was the connection to Candy and Barton? And more importantly, to the government?

He tried punching in Easy's full given name:
ERIC DANE HARDAWAY.
He was waiting for the computer to return the information when suddenly his screen started flashing a red warning banner.
YOU NO LONGER HAVE ACCESS TO THIS SYSTEM,
the screen flashed over and over again, the words so bright, they were almost neon.

Tuck jumped back from the computer like it was a poisonous snake. Suddenly, he felt something buzz on his desk. His cell phone was ringing. He looked at the screen and picked up the line.

“Yo, son, what's good? Yeah, I need to tell you some bad news,” Tuck said, breathless like he'd been running fast. He surveyed his apartment, feeling like he was being watched. He half listened to the caller, becoming increasingly paranoid by the minute. He didn't know what to make of these latest developments.

One thing he was certain of was Brubaker and the undercover recovery team would be coming after him sooner rather than later.

Junior squeezed his remote so tight, the battery cover popped off. He threw the remote across the room. It was official now. Phil's brother was dead. There was no more hope of finding him with just a missing finger. The boy was dead—tortured and dead. Junior's insides roiled. He was at war with the uptown crew now, whether he liked it or not.

* * *

Phil had contacted Junior when his brother's severed finger had arrived at the barbershop with the bloody note attached. He was livid, threatening death and destruction for Junior, Broady, and anybody else in their crew who got in the way.

When Junior got Phil to calm down a bit, Phil told him that the note had been written on a small blue card, and one side of the card said:

To y'all Brooklyn niggas. I'm sending these flowers to let y'all know how I get down. Take this one as a warning. Niggas get it how they live. - Phil
.

 

Phil vehemently denied sending the note. He explained to Junior that he had sent a bleeding heart arrangement to Razor's funeral, but his note had merely offered his condolences.

Phil and Junior reached the conclusion together that somebody wanted the note to look like it had come from Phil. Junior silently concluded that Broady must've gotten the note from Razor's funeral.

Phil told Junior the other side of the card said:

Take this one as more than a warning. We at war, nigga.
-
Junior
.

 

Again, somebody wanted the note on the flip side of the card to look like it had come from Junior, in response to Phil's “sympathy note.”

Junior had given Phil his sworn word that he had not sent the note or harmed a hair on his little brother's head. The conversation got eerily quiet after that. Phil and Junior both knew who the likely culprit was. As a result, war was inevitable.

Broady was a wanted man on the streets of Harlem and Brooklyn. Whether Junior or Phil got to him first would be another matter.

Junior still wrestled with whether or not he should offer Broady his protection or simply take him out of the equation for good, a decision he would make once he located Broady.

* * *

Until the news story broke, Junior had held out hope that Phil's brother would be returned alive. He had scoured the streets for Broady. He had even sent Tuck to monitor Broady's house for a while, in case he returned.

Junior picked up his weapon off the coffee table and slid it into his waistband. He dialed Tuck's number. “Yo, did you find that nigga yet?” he asked.

“What you mean, Shana is dead? What? What the fuck, nigga! Get off this jack and come meet me!” Junior growled into the phone.

Junior knew right away that Phil had put the hit on Shana. Broady didn't have the heart to shoot her.

In the streets, when there was a war, family and bitches were the quickest way to bring a rival to his knees. Junior pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't know how everything had unraveled so fast. It was like a bad omen had suddenly descended upon him and his entire crew. But his first priority was to find his brother. Shit was getting critical.

* * *

Brad Brubaker sat in his old beater, waiting. This time he would be the one to show up early for the meeting. Although a different type of meeting, he chose the same deserted gas station off I-95 in Delaware. He wore dark shades, a pair of raggedy jeans, and a Georgetown Hoyas T-shirt.

He looked at his watch and sighed. He picked up his cell phone and began dialing the number, but before he could finish, he noticed a car speeding into the gas station. He felt for his weapon and smiled.

The car slowed and then stopped.

Brubaker spoke loudly so his wire transmission would be picked up. “He's here,” he announced. He watched the huge hulk of a man climb out of the vehicle and approach his car.

“They didn't tell me the bastard was this tall. No wonder,” Brubaker whispered to himself.

The man yanked open the passenger side door and slid into the seat. He didn't acknowledge Brubaker's presence.

“I'm Brad Brubaker. Nice to finally meet you,” Brubaker said, trying to ease the tension. When his greeting went unanswered, he continued nervously. “Joseph ‘Rock' Barton. What do you prefer to be called? Rock, Joe, or Barton? Okay. Well, I will just call you Barton then,” Brubaker said, lowering his eyes.

The name said aloud made Rock cringe. That was the name he'd been called in the Marines and while he trained with the Agency to become an assassin. Hearing his name called brought back a flood of painful memories.

Rock knew he could take this little scrawny white boy out with a flick of his wrist, but he also knew there would be drastic consequences for his actions. He wasn't going to escape the government unless he did as asked. This one last time.

“Well, here is the assignment,” Brubaker said, placing a picture on Rock's lap.

Rock looked down at the photograph. He felt a sharp pain in his chest. He recognized the man in the picture. His face was etched in his mind already because, on a few occasions, he had seen the guy trying to talk to Candice. He swallowed hard.

“This guy killed a fifteen-year-old kid during a raid. We sent him undercover, thinking it would bring him some redemption. We thought we'd kill two birds with one stone and bring down the supplier for another drug dealer, named Carson. But this man went rogue. Missing meetings, acting violent, you name it, he has done it.” Brubaker tried to gauge Barton's reaction.

Brubaker had been told to appeal to Rock by ensuring him that the intended target was a threat to society, but he didn't know Rock had already viewed this man as a threat to Candice as well.

“This guy here killed a kid named Corey Jackson, and we still don't have his motive,” Brubaker lied without even blinking.

Rock knew that to be an outright lie. He was familiar with this game of chess and was no pawn to be played with. He knew who had killed Corey “Razor” Jackson.

“So we want his death to appear as a line of duty, you know, so nobody questions shit. Line of duty always works well. They say that's how his father died. Hate to do that to his poor mother, but this guy is armed and dangerous. You know he threatened his own wife and kids? We've got plenty of neighbors who will corroborate that,” Brubaker maintained, trying hard to justify the government's actions.

Rock nodded his understanding. He was shaking from the effort it took to suppress his cough. No longer able to contain himself, he erupted into a fit of coughing.

Brubaker, well aware of Rock's condition, didn't seem too startled by the outburst. It was part of the reason he had been chosen for this job. “You all right there?” he asked, feigning concern.

Rock used a small handkerchief to wipe away the blood that had escaped his mouth. Even the medication wasn't working these days. He grunted in the affirmative.

“Here is the money. They raised the stakes this time. Seems like they want to pay you more than those hood pennies Hardaway was paying you,” Brad said, tossing a tightly wrapped manila envelope onto Rock's lap.

The envelope landed on top of the picture of Rock's newest mark. Rock looked hesitantly down at the items. He slipped on his black gloves, removed the items from his lap, rubbed the door handle of Brad's car clean before exiting the vehicle. He didn't want his fingerprints left behind on anything that could incriminate him.

Brubaker looked at Rock like he was crazy, but inside he was smiling. Thanks to a deal that Joseph Barton had made with the Agency years ago, Brubaker's plan to get rid of Avon Tucker was going to work. No more bumps in the road for Brad Brubaker. He would finally get the career that Avon Tucker had denied him after the fatal shooting accident years ago.

Brubaker was almost giddy with excitement and could hardly contain himself. All he had to do now was sit back and wait for the chips to fall in place. All of his efforts and assignments that made Avon look like a crazy undercover rogue were coming together. He couldn't wait to be back in the good graces of the DEA and among the top brass again. He even thought he might get promoted to assistant special agent in charge.

* * *

Broady had been sitting at his brother's desk in the back office of Club Skyye, getting high for hours. He felt just as powerful as Junior now. He turned Junior's swivel chair around when he heard the footsteps behind him, his eyes low from the drugs in his system.

“What? You came to give me a lecture? I know, I know. I shouldn't fight with my girlfriend and bring attention to myself,” he droned, chuckling.

He didn't get a response.

“Ain't nobody here but us now. How you know I was here, anyway?” He laughed again.

His comment was met with silence.

Broady tried to stand up, but instead staggered backwards.

Suddenly, there was a gun pointed in his face.

He flopped back into the chair. “What the fuck you gon' do with that?” He grinned lazily, too high to acknowledge the danger.

The gun came down on his skull, and his skin split open.

Broady squealed, lifting his hand to the side of his head. The gush of blood threatened to blow his high. Broady's vision blurred. “What the fuck is you doin'? I had a fight with her, that's all. I left her alone after that,” he slurred, planting his hands on the table, trying to brace himself to stand upright.

Another blow from the handle of the handgun sent him reeling back into the chair, his monstrous weight tipping it backwards.

Broady landed on the floor, the back of his head cracking on the hard marble tiles. He lay there dazed for a few minutes before attempting to stand up, but his bulky body slipped back down each time he tried. The combination of drugs and hits to the head rendered him immobile. His entire body felt as if it were made of lead.

He screamed as a sharp pain shot through the top of his hand when a pair of hard-soled shoes pressed down on it.

Suddenly a black-gloved hand applied pressure to the center of his throat, finding his jugular notch.

Broady wheezed, his eyes bulging. His hand began to bleed as the sharp shoe heel pierced through his skin. “Pa—ple—as—e,” he begged. Vomit crept up his esophagus with nowhere to go, since his airway was blocked.

Finally, the pressure on his neck relented.

Broady gagged, trying to fully catch his breath.

This time, the gun cut across his jawbone.
Wham!

Broady slumped to the floor. Blood ran from his head, over his chin, and down his left arm.

“What did you say before you did it?” a muffled voice asked, the gun at Broady's temple.

Broady's eyes went wide. He grunted in pain as he received a kick in his thick side. “What? Whatchu talkin' about? It . . . it wa—wasn't me,” he rasped.

“Liar!” the voice growled.

Broady coughed, his head feeling like it would explode. He had two large white-meat gashes in his head, and his jaw felt shattered in more than one place.

A heavy foot rose and fell on his windpipe.

“When you inflicted the torture, were there screams?”

Broady's body bucked. He tried to defend himself but was powerless against his aggressor.

Another stomp rendered him motionless before the handle of the .40-caliber weapon connected with his face again. Blood and small bits of flesh adhered to the end of the gun.

“You are a fucking monster that the world can do without! Your little girlfriend, yeah, she's dead,” the person cackled.

“Noooo!” Broady gasped, not able to get enough air into his mouth to utter any other words. He didn't know Shana was dead. He had hit and choked her but left her as soon as he felt himself losing control. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.

“How should I kill you?”

The gun leveled over him now, Broady closed his eyes and resigned himself to death.

“Open your eyes, motherfucker! You need to feel the fear. You need to see it coming.”

When Broady refused to open his eyes, he was hit again, this time on the bridge of his nose, and a gush of blood erupted from his nose like a volcano. He began coughing and gagging. Blood was leaking down into his inflamed esophagus.

“Shooting you would be too easy. I think I'll watch while you drown in your own blood.” Broady's assailant smirked.

Broady felt a foot apply pressure to his chest. His head moved wildly as he tried to catch his breath. He gurgled blood, and his body convulsed.

Then two shots rang out, and Broady's body went completely still.

Gun in hand, Candice placed the back of her wrist up to her mouth. She felt the urge to dry heave. She hadn't seen anything so gruesome since she had found her family.