Rising Phoenix (2 page)

Leroy had earned the moniker a little over a year ago from his prolific, though less than skillful, use of a Tec-9 machine pistol. It was his weapon of choice, and an item that he was never without.

“Ain’t nothin’ goin’, ’Twan. You ready?” The wet air seemed to suck up sound.

“Shit, yeah. Nothin’ much doin’ on a day like this.”

They continued up the street, not talking. It took less than ten minutes to arrive at the small white house that was their destination. They paused on the sidewalk, scanning for danger signals.

The house’s roof looked ready to cave in. The thick boards covering the windows seemed to be the only structurally sound materials that had been used on it. There was no yard to speak of, just wet garbage clinging to overgrown weeds. To the uninitiated, the house would have appeared abandoned. They knew better.

’Twan held back by the street as Tek walked casually to the front door, resisting the urge to look around him. He rapped three times with his knuckles, paused, then hit the door twice with the soft flesh on the side of his fist.

“Yeah, who is it?” came a muffled voice on the other side of the door.

“Yo, man, it’s Tek. Open up, it’s fucking pouring out here!”

The door opened about two inches, stopped, then opened the rest of the way.

“Who’s that?”

Tek examined the man pointing at his friend on the sidewalk. He looked like a mountain.

“He’s with me,” Tek explained simply, trying unsuccessfully to step around the man and out of the rain.

“You come in. He stays out.”

Tek gave his friend a quick wave. ’Twan remained motionless, staring at him through the dark wraparound sunglasses that seemed to have become part of his face over the years.

The light in the room was dim, supplied by a single shadeless lamp in the corner and what little daylight could filter in through the boarded-up windows. The interior of the house was divided in two by a single wall, making it impossible for Tek to see into the back room from his position by the door. There was no furniture, though he imagined that behind the wall was a table full of the stuff he was there for.

A tall man with mottled skin appeared from the back. Tek had met him twice before and knew him only by his street name—DC.

“Tek, my man! How you doin?” His warm smile made Tek vaguely uneasy.

DC turned away for a moment and spoke to the large man who had positioned himself in the far corner of the room. “Hey, Split—this is my man Tek. He’s the exclusive supplier to the Waring apartments.” Split nodded in Tek’s direction. If he was impressed that someone Tek’s age could control such a prestigious territory, he didn’t show it.

“What can we do for you?” DC asked. His tone was light.

“I could use some rock, man. Havin’ problems with my supplier and I thought we could do business.”

“Love to, man, love to. What you need?”

“Got a thousand, man. What’ll that get me?”

“A thousand! Shit, maybe I can get you our preferred-customer volume discount. Allow me to confer with my associates.” He disappeared into the back again, and Tek was left under Split’s watchful eye.

A few minutes passed before DC poked his head back around the wall. Tek was feeling more and more exposed standing in the empty room.

“You lookin’ to buy right now?”

Tek nodded impatiently. Why else would he be here?

DC walked back into the room with an exaggerated look of disappointment on his face. “We don’t have that much stuff ready, man, but it’s no problem. Tell you what—why don’t you just leave the money here, and I’ll have Split come by in a couple of hours and bring you what you need.”

Tek’s heart began to pound forcefully in his chest, though his face remained expressionless. DC knew damn well that he wasn’t going to leave a thousand dollars in cash with a man he had never done business with.

Out of the corner of his eye Tek saw Split’s arms drop to his sides. He quickly sized up the situation, once again becoming aware of the comforting weight of the machine pistol tucked under his rain-soaked sweatshirt.

There was no way he was getting out without shooting his way out. ’Twan could be trusted to back him up, but the door had been locked behind him when he’d entered. The trick was going to be surviving
the twenty seconds it would take for his friend to run to the house and take out the lock.

“Thanks anyway, man,” he heard himself mumble. “I’ll just come back later and pick it up myself.” He looked directly at DC when he spoke, but his mind was focused on his peripheral vision and Split.

“Shit, man, it’s no problem. Split would be happy to do it. Wouldn’t you, Split?”

The mountain nodded but didn’t look enthusiastic.

DC’s words confirmed Tek’s first impression. Talking was a waste of time. Better to go for his gun first and get the edge.

Tek stepped slowly out from in front of the door that he hoped ’Twan would be shooting at in a few seconds. With one quick motion, he reached under his sweatshirt and leveled the machine pistol at Split’s chest. He’d gotten more of a drop on them than he’d expected. Taking full advantage of his good fortune, he pushed the gun out in front of him and squeezed the trigger.

Through the flash of the muzzle, Tek watched his target clawing for the gun stuffed in his pants. He ignored DC, who was diving for the back room, reaching under his jacket as his body twisted through the air.

Split’s gun had cleared his pants and was nearly level with Tek’s chest when it was torn from his hand. A second bullet impacted his chest, spinning him around to the right. He hit the wall face first and was suspended there for a moment, framed by fresh bullet holes.

Tek turned his attention to more pressing matters as
Split’s lifeless body slid slowly down the wall, ending up crumpled in the corner. DC hadn’t reappeared and Tek stood motionless for a few seconds, ears ringing in the sudden silence. He thought for a moment that he’d lucked out, that DC had taken off through the back door and was at that moment sprinting through the wet streets.

The moment didn’t last. As he turned to make a grab for the front door, someone started shooting at random through the wall that separated them. The rate of fire suggested some kind of fully automatic machine gun. Tek dove onto the floor and shot back through the wall. Behind him, pieces of the front door began tumbling through the air as ’Twan fired relentlessly at the lock.

In front of him, the wall was becoming so riddled with bullet holes that he was beginning to be able to make out movement on the other side. The realization that he wasn’t going to survive another fifteen seconds struck him without warning. The feeling of immortality that seemed to go hand in hand with youth drained from him. For the first time, he could picture his own death.

It was getting hard to breathe and progressively harder to see. The lamp that had stood in the corner hadn’t survived DC’s first volley. Gun smoke and particles of shattered drywall floated lazily in the air, choking him and burning his eyes. Tek dropped the empty pistol and rolled onto his stomach. The smell of mold in the carpet mingled with the overpowering smell of gunpowder.

It was time to get out. The boarded-up window in
front of him emanated a few small beams of natural light that were quickly swallowed up by the thick air. Holding his breath, he jumped to his feet and ran crouching through bullets and flying debris, throwing himself headfirst at the window. He fully expected either to be shot in midair or to hit the boards covering the window and bounce back into the gauntlet. To his surprise, the combination of dry rot and gunfire had weakened the boards to the point that they offered no more resistance than glass.

He landed hard in the garbage-strewn side yard of the house, but managed to struggle to his feet and begin limping around to the front. As he came around the corner he saw ’Twan standing in the now open doorway, holding his Uzi sideways in front of him, spraying bullets wildly into the room and shouting obscene insults at no one in particular.

“Let’s get out of here!” Tek shouted over the crackling gunfire.

Miraculously, his friend heard him, and they began running, side by side, back the way they’d come. Tek grabbed his friend’s gun and began firing blindly behind them as they ran, hoping to discourage pursuit.

In a house two doors down from the one the two young men were fleeing, Katerina Joy Washington was sleeping on a couch in her cluttered living room. Gunfire was no more unusual to her than the sound of laughter or car engines, and she barely stirred. Yesterday had been her third birthday, and she was still clutching the doll her mother had given her. It hadn’t been out of her hands all day.

If someone had been standing next to the sofa,
looking into her serene face, they probably wouldn’t have noticed anything unusual. Her head jerked slightly as though she had sneezed. Or maybe it was a bad dream. Then she lay perfectly still, a crimson stain spreading out behind her head like a halo.

T
he Reverend Simon Blake felt the sweat trickling down his back as he paced back and forth under the glaring stage lights. He stopped short, wiping his brow with an exaggerated flick of his hand.

“I have something important I want to talk to you about. It’s something that threatens our families, our country—threatens Christ himself,” he confided to the five thousand eager faces looking up at him. Continuing his pacing, he pulled the microphone close to his mouth.

“It’s Satan’s greatest weapon. His greatest curse—drugs.”

Blake was near the end of his weekly service. In addition to his sermons, the two hours were filled with inspirational music, interviews with public figures, and Christian news stories. The show was translated into three languages and broadcast to seven different countries. An eighth would be added next week, if his attorneys were earning their exorbitant salaries.

The walls of his church soared above him but somehow didn’t have the effect of making the preacher look small. On the contrary, he seemed to be one with the vast complex, woven into the fabric of the concrete and glass. Part of his congregation’s growing excitement.

As his voice echoed through the church, amplified by its state-of-the-art PA system, the pitch of the crowd changed perceptibly. Sex and drugs were always surefire attention grabbers.

Fifteen years ago, his sermons had been full of God’s love and salvation. He had thought that he could change the world from his little chapel in western Maryland with a simple message of hope. How naive.

The years had changed his message. Selections from the Bible had been replaced by quotes from prominent politicians. The concept of universal love and peace had succumbed to an ultra-conservative political agenda.

The cathedral had been completed nearly ten years ago and had cost almost ten million dollars. As his message evolved, he had outgrown the small chapel and loyal congregation that had been so important to him in his youth. He’d gladly given up recognizing the faces looking up at him for the opportunity to command the souls of an entire world.

“The Lord has told me over and over again to save the children—that they’re the future.” His congregation shouted its agreement.

“He’s told me that Satan wants us all, but mostly he wants the little ones. Evil is always plotting, always looking ahead.”

He paused, holding himself completely still, scanning the crowd. He stood there for almost a minute,
mouth moving in silent prayer. It was one of his favorite dramatic devices, giving the impression that God himself was sending a confidential message—right then and there. The audience responded, as they always did, and their shouts flowed through the cavernous interior of the church, building power, until they hit him like a tidal wave. Blake stood, arms outstretched, feeling the hearts and minds of his congregation open to him, waiting to be filled with his wisdom. The wisdom of God.

“Do you know what his weapon is?” Blake said quietly into the microphone. The congregation went silent so quickly that it seemed as if a transparent wall had been suddenly dropped in front of the stage. He repeated himself for the benefit of those who hadn’t been able to hear him over the din.

“Do you know what Satan’s weapon is?” He answered his own question. “Drugs.”

Once again, the crowd shouted its agreement.

Years ago, the growing use of narcotics—especially by the young—had alarmed him. Now it consumed him. Users were everywhere—even in his church. He could feel them. Weekend Warriors, he called them. The men and women who joined his congregation to be entertained and to relieve their guilt. When they left, though, they went home and forgot about God until Sunday once again rolled around. At home, they fornicated, drank, and smoked marijuana. Or worse. These hypocrites would pay for their weakness and burn in the fires of hell for all eternity, he knew, but not before they corrupted others. And the Lord had charged him with putting a stop to it.

Blake marched to his podium, picking up a well-worn Bible that had been given to him years before by his father. He held it over his head.

“The Bible warns us about the evils of strong drink,” he continued angrily. “But Satan didn’t stop at alcohol. No, he invented more seductive things to enslave mankind. Now we have heroin. We have cocaine. We have marijuana. And don’t kid yourselves that it’s not in your neighborhood, not in your children’s schools. It’s everywhere!”

He was shouting into the microphone now. Sweat and spit flew as he ran up and down the stage.

“And don’t bother looking to the government to protect you from this plague. The liberals like to say that they are on the side of the working man, but I know the truth.” He motioned to the crowd. “We know the truth!”

Blake put the Bible back and waved his free hand in the air frantically.

“They just want to make sure that they don’t offend any of the drug pushers.” He effected an outrageously deep voice and spoke to an imaginary woman next to him. “Sorry if you got mugged yesterday, Mrs. Smith, but we wouldn’t want to punish anyone—that might violate their civil rights.”