“You’re welcome. My name is Kimberly. If there is anything I can do to help, just call.” We both knew that she truly meant anything.
I walked out of the lobby and into the warm Caribbean night, headed toward my rental car, a black-on-black European edition BMW 650 convertible. Placing the briefcase on the passenger seat, I let the top down and pulled out into the night air. Not long after, I was crossing from the Dutch side of the island to the French side, headed to Orient Beach.
When I found a quiet place to park at the beach, I discarded my white button-down under the seat and scanned the area for the occasional late night dog walker, or perhaps a couple looking to get in a moonlit quickie on the beach.
With nobody in sight, I turned my attention to the briefcase, lifting it onto its spine. Running my fingers along the lock, I spun each wheel until I had the proper combination, then pushed the two buttons on either side of the briefcase. The locks clicked open, and I was soon staring down at my two guns, Bonnie and Clyde, which were securely placed in foam cutouts next to clips, cartridges, ammunition, and other accessories. Bonnie was a Smith and Wesson M&P 9mm, which I favored over the Glock 9mm, while Clyde was a .500 S&W Magnum, by far the most powerful commercially made handgun in the world.
At the top of the case, there was more ammo and a custom-made double shoulder holster, which I slipped on. I screwed a silencer onto Bonnie and snapped in a clip before placing her in my holster. I then reached for Clyde and snapped in a five-bullet cartridge before sliding the gun into my holster. There was no need to silence Clyde, because when I reached for him, I didn’t care who heard me. The next five minutes was spent tucking clips, cartridges, and ammo into their various homes on the holster. Once all of that was done, I took a deep breath, feeling complete for the first time in years. It was now time to do what I did best. I stepped out of the car and slipped into the shadows of the warm Caribbean night.
Brother X
8
We’d finally stopped moving after nearly two hours. I wasn’t sure if this stop was a good thing or not, because the driver had gotten out of the car and was talking to somebody. From my vantage point inside the trunk, I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I remained hopeful, but I still tightened my grasp around the shank when I heard the trunk being unlocked.
After two days in a safe house in Albany, we had headed south toward New York City, switching vehicles at least four times. I knew this was the last time as soon as my eyes adjusted to the light and I recognized the man helping me out of the trunk.
“Elijah,” I muttered, pulling him in for a brotherly hug. Elijah had been my friend and right hand man since I headed the FOI New York for the Nation. He was also more loyal than any other man I’d ever met and twice as deadly.
“As-Salaam-Alaikum, Xavier,” he smiled, squeezing me.
“Wa-Alaikum-Salaam, my brother.” He released me from our embrace. Looking past him, I noticed three cars and ten brothers standing with military precision thirty feet away.
“You’ve done well, my friend. What about my wife? Do we know where she’s been?”
“Yes, she’s been at home the past couple of days. Alone.”
“Alone?” He nodded. “And what about this Junior Duncan?”
“He’s been holed up at his family home in Far Rockaway.”
“Interesting. Have you completed what I asked?”
“Everything is exactly as you instructed, except that the Jew wants to meet. I can debrief you in the car.”
“Good.” I patted him on the back then turned back to the trunk, whistling for my rats, who quickly came out of their hiding place. I picked them up, giving each a kiss before I placed them in my pockets and followed Elijah toward the car.
“X! Yo, X!” I turned in the direction of the familiar voice.