Die Later Read online

  DIE LATER

  Rahiem Brooks

  Copyright © 2011 by Rahiem Brooks

  PRODIGY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Philadelphia, PA

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  http://www.rahiembrooks.com | Email Rahiem at [email protected] | Editor: Jenetha McCutcheon | Cover Designer: Gregory Goodwin

  PART 1 | CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  PART 2 | CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  EPILOGUE | TWO WEEKS LATER

  http://www.rahiembrooks.com

  Email Rahiem at [email protected]

  Editor: Jenetha McCutcheon

  Cover Designer: Gregory Goodwin

  Books by Rahiem Brooks

  FEATURING ANDRE & KAREEM BEZEL

  Laugh Now

  First Laugh (Prequel)

  Die Later

  Last Laugh

  Also by Rahiem Brooks

  Con Test

  Murder in Germantown

  Truth, Lies, and Confessions (with Kevin Woodard)

  PART 1

  CHAPTER 1

  Humans instinctively resist killing, but for Antoine it was done without thought. He had advanced ghetto training that robbed him of any individuality, and he was weaned on craving exotic cars, bling bling and other things that he could not afford. His Timberland Chukka boots crashed on the concrete as he made his way from the robbery scene. He ran and waved a gun, which simply confirmed that the neighborhood was normal. That was the sort of day Antoine was having as he ran, because his life depended on it.

  Normal.

  His heart pounded uncontrollably as he escaped the crime scene. The evening was undoubtedly normal, and it lacked luck. There were at least five people aware that a crime had been committed and who the perp was. Two of them side-stepped out of the robber’s path before the Rueger that he had pointed at them went off. Another witness was perched in an apartment window and watched from a distance. She somehow rooted for the thug to get away. After all, she was glad that the man who distributed drugs on their block had taken a loss.

  Having planned this robbery two months in advance, Antoine knew that he would be able to stick up the man who picked up the cash just before he hopped into his car. Antoine dug his gun deep into the man’s temple. A clot of blood had formed on the man’s face as Antoine said, “Drop the fucking bag.” The bag hit the street and Antoine pulled back his hand and back-handed the man with thunderous force. Before the man hit the ground, Antoine picked up the duffle bag and exited stage left. He had turned the corner before the man could summon backup from in the house.

  It was not until Antoine had bent the corner that he heard a gunshot. He was a gangster and never ducked for cover. He kept pushing down Wayne Avenue from Seymour Street. He raced by more witnesses, who he raised his gun at and demanded that they clear his path. What he had not expected was the cop car to be parked 50-feet from the corner.

  The police scrambled for cover as Antoine jetted pass them. Officer Burros radioed for backup and hopped into the pilot seat of the Philadelphia PD cruiser. Officer Neismith took off after the gunman and yelled, “Freeze!” to the robber’s back. He was duly ignored. Antoine bolted south on Wayne Avenue and with the cops now in on the chase, the heat had been turned up.

  Antoine typically flatlined any witnesses—cops included—but his only mission was to seek refuge and thwart being stopped. He reached Happy Hollow Playground and prayed that the gate was open. He had sped past his get-away car, and was pissed.

  The gate was open.

  He disappeared inside.

  He hit the corner of the gymnasium, dipped past the swings, sliding board and monkey bars. Officer Neismith continued to pursue him. The robber reached the red-brick winding hill, which kids slid down sitting in milk crates. The hill had no lights. Under the cover of the October darkness, Antoine hoped that the policeman would back off because he was afraid of what lay ahead in the darkness. He heard the park’s residents chirp, buzz and bark, but the sounds were not loud enough to mask the jingle of the officer’s keys and footsteps. He ran and hoped that he beat the other officer in the cruiser to the Pulaski Avenue park entrance.

  Two shots rang out.

  “Shots fired,” Officer Neismith radioed to his fellow officers. “I repeat, the perp has fired.” He drew his service revolver and ducked to the ground. There was nowhere to take cover, but in the event the gunman began to shoot all over the place, he’d be low. He took up position and awaited backup.

  Officer Burros had double-parked on the other side of the park and his car lights lit up the park. Antoine knew that he could not exit there. Cell phones in the hands of spectators who lived across the street from the park recorded exhibit “A” in the event there was a criminal or civil trial. While they hated criminals, they hated criminals who wore badges too. If the police resorted to stupidity and immoral corrupt behavior they would work for his dismissal without pay. For thirty years, they had been abused in the Germantown section of North Philadelphia, and they were not having it any more. They were tired of rogue police behavior, and were determined to promote moral, or at least amoral, police conduct..

  The officers heard more gunshots and they both took cover. They did not care about Internal Affairs. With bullets dancing in the air, they were prepared to take a life. They radioed each other and planned to keep the robber trapped in the park until backup arrived to surround the area. Antoine had other plans, though. He dipped out of the park through an alley. It was an exit that only a native of the area would have known about. He emerged out of the alley and onto Clapier Street and was nearly run over by an SUV. The SUV froze within seconds of helping Antoine get out of his quandary.

  The driver was pissed and hopped out of his truck barking condescending obscenities. His face was distorted with anger. But that changed to fright when he saw a gun in his face.

  “Get the fuck back in the truck!” said Antoine.

  Without debate, the driver did as he was told. He wanted to get away from the crazed gunman.

  Police cruisers zoomed pass the top of the block, desperatel
y wanting to get to the crime scene. The police visualized feeding their murderous hunger pangs. They wanted the opportunity, since one of their own had been shot at. They were so off base.

  They sped pass a Range Rover and their man was deep into the floor of the truck with a gun trained on the driver.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Range Rover was eerily quiet as the driver cautiously drove north on Pulaski Avenue. He bypassed dozens of policeman headed to the crime scene. They had no idea that the robber had committed a second crime—carjacking and kidnapping—and drove by them. The driver drove methodically. He was forced to match his survival instinct against his street smarts. His night was suddenly derailed and his vision of a Sunday night in Atlantic City at the 40/40 Club looked grainy.

  The driver glanced into the rearview mirror and golden eyes stared at strong cheekbones and a wavy flow of hair. Women appreciated his charm, and the animal in the back seat was taking advantage of that. He had a show-stopping smile, but he was stone-faced as he watched red and blue lights fade behind him. At Manheim Street, Antoine demanded that the driver turn left. Undoubtedly, he did it. He was no dummy. His captor had been in the back seat less than a minute, but it seemed like hours. He surmised that the man was in a desperate situation that he needed out of before arrest occurred, or something more obnoxious.

  “Left or right?” the driver asked, as he approached Wissahickon Avenue. The Social Security Administration building was in front of him, so he could not proceed straight.

  “Swing a left and hop on the E-way,” the thug instructed and waved the Rueger in the air. He kept his index finger planted firmly on the trigger, as if the driver gave a damn.

  The driver was extremely aware of the dangers to his health had he not obeyed. He also knew that the man needed him.

  A lot!

  “Where are you taking me to?” the driver asked, and he desperately wanted to know. He sounded and was probably perceived to be timid and passive. He was neither. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a sinister sparkle in his captor’s eyes that evidenced little, or no, commonsense.

  “Just drive!” Antoine said. His voice was grim and dark. Killer.

  The driver slipped in with the other traffic onto I-76 at Fox Street. To his horror, traffic became gridlocked just after driving one mile to the City Avenue exit. “Fuck, an accident,” the driver said out loud and his visions of getting the gun toting ingrate to his final destination vanished. There he was doing a meteoric zero miles per hour with a caged animal in his back seat. He had to bust a move because the silence was extremely loud.

  Antoine deemed the jam a very dangerous liability.

  The driver cleared a lump in his throat and prepped to talk his way from up under the gun. That was the most moving moment in his life. To the kidnapper, he cordially said, “You’re running from the cops, huh?” He let that sink in and then added, “I can dig it. Been there before.”

  “Cut the shit.” Antoine hissed. “I’m having a very bad fucking night.”

  “I’m having a blast, being held at gunpoint in a traffic jam and shit,” the driver replied as he turned to face the man. He wore a smirk on his face.

  The buffoon jumped up and slammed the Rueger into the driver’s side. He pressed it hard, even though the man was his accomplice.

  “Go ahead and kill me. There’s no less than fifty sets of eyes on us. You’ll get very far on foot,” the man said mockingly. “You need me. Act like it!” He didn’t add pussy. He knew well that the criminal would not have shot him for that disrespectful line. Not at that point. It was best that he gathered all of the courage that he could to prevent that clown from sending him to meet his maker.

  “Oh! You think you a tough guy?”

  “Naw, I am a street nigga, though. Don’t let the smoothness fool you, my dude. Believe me, I am not the enemy. I am glad that you got away. Now get that gun out of my side.” The driver hoped that everything that he said registered. He prayed that he had a criminal in the back of his ride with a small dosage of deductive reasoning.

  “You have a lot of balls to talk to me like that,” the gunman said to the driver as he pulled his gun back and slid back into his hole. “You make a good point, but I will kill you if you disrespect me again, between now and me carjacking you.”

  “You want my fucking ride?” the driver asked, and snatched the key out of the ignition. He swung the car door open and hit the button to open the back hatch. He hopped out of the driver side, and said, “Take it!” He punctuated his statement by slamming the door shut. At the back of the truck, he pulled the hatch open. He was pissed and prepared to take that show on the road as the director. “You got a gun, running from the cops. To me that translates to you being a dealer or a robber. By the look of the duffle bag, I am thinking the latter. I can put you onto some serious cash, no gun required. But with that gun on me, that ain’t likely.”

  Antoine looked at the driver shockingly. Inwardly he could not believe the audacity. To the driver’s dismay, Antoine did not budge. Not even blink. Just a crazy stare. Could he have contemplated shooting him in the face? The driver had no idea, so helped the driver helped the kidnapper along. He said, “You can’t kill me, man. Well, you could, but you shouldn’t. For one, I am a criminal just as much as you, or else I would be screaming for my life. Secondly, you have to no escape plan, sorta the same way you were prior to jumping into my ride.”

  Antoine sat on the floor and conferred with his self for a moment. His train of thought was derailed by car horns blaring from vehicles behind them. The accident had been cleared and traffic began to crawl.

  “How do I know that I can trust you?” Antoine asked, as he was ready to crawl.

  “You don’t but I am standing here and not strolling away causing you to really have to think. Nor am I running from car to car and screaming bloody murder. Now what’s it going to be?”

  “Get in. You’re drawing.” Antoine warned the driver, but he did not care.

  “I am drawing? You hopped in my car after putting a gun in my face and forced me to drive you to God knows where. You’re drawing! I am not getting in the wheel with the gun.”

  “What?”

  “Toss the gun into the Schuykill River, hop in the front seat, and then we can leave.”

  “Get the fuck outta here! What kind of dumb shit are you on?”

  “Either the gun goes or I walk.”

  “Walk!” Defiant.

  The driver with equal defiance walked against the traffic without a care in the world.

  “Hey!” Antoine yelled, he had had a second thought.

  The driver ignored him and kept walking.

  “Yo!”

  The man turned around and found the kidnapper standing outside the truck. He had the driver’s son’s book bag in his hand and motioned that the gun was inside. He then swerved around a sixteen-wheeler and reached the edge of the bridge. There was a concrete wall and a six-foot gate topped with barb wire. He tossed the bag over and then jogged back to the truck and hopped into the passenger seat.

  He stuck his head out of the window and then yelled, “The gun’s gone. Come back.” He pleaded.

  Mark smiled with his back to the goon. Before he turned around, he threw on his “I-mean-business” mug and walked back to his car. He was cautious as if he hadn’t bought the car. With car horns assaulting him from every angle, he hopped into the driver seat and pulled off. To his dismay, the passenger wore an angry mask and pouted. It was hilarious to the driver. Held me at gun point and now he’s pissed. Some fucking nerve!

  They drove about 100-feet before the kidnapper reclined his seat all the way back. Who was he hiding from? He was three miles from the original crime scene where the police were at, no doubt conducting a pulse pounding man hunt.

  “What they call you, dude?” the driver asked him. He was entitled to know, he thought.

  “Come on with the thousand questions. What the fuck kinda dollar are you tryinna turn me on to?”
<
br />   “A job!” the driver said, and surmised that he had him.

  “Job! Man I am doing my job right now. I ain’t looking to build a retirement pension. Fuck outta here.”

  “Well, how’s that working out for you?” the driver asked as if he was looking to know about his workout regimen.

  “You’re a real fucking smart ass. Just drive.”

  “I am.”

  “Look, shut the fuck up and get me downtown to the Clothes Pin sculpture across from City Hall. I can find my way from there.”

  The driver was sure that he could. That was the central location of the SEPTA public bus/train system. The driver drove the rest of the way and formulated how he could convince the clown to get on his team. He had been masterminding a very elaborate scheme and needed a few guinea pigs to act in his criminal production. The ignorant asshole beside him would be the perfect actor. Ten minutes later they exited the expressway and headed down 15th Street. They passed Race, Arch, and Cherry Street before they reached JFK Boulevard and then Market Street. The driver pulled behind a bank of cabs.

  “I guess this is your stop?”

  “Naw yours,” Antoine said and pulled out his gun. “Hand over the wallet and cell phone, nut!”

  “No problem.”

  “You’re a smart ass. You’re lucky we’re downtown or I would have flatlined yo ass.”

  “Your choice. Not mine.”

  “Hand me the shit, pussy!”

  The driver handed it over and Antoine opened the car door. He looked in the wallet and took out the car owner’s license. “You try any heroic shit, it’s a rap, Mr. Kareem Bezel. You’ll never make it back to Manhattan,” Antoine said and slammed the car door shut.

  Kareem jumped out of the car and approached Antoine, as he pulled the duffle bag out of the car.

  “You try any heroic shit and it’s over.” Hard stare.

  Kareem was a bona fide hero and he really had no plans for things to be over. He proffered a goofy smile, and said, “Dig this. What I said on the bridge was not a game, or a ploy to earn my freedom. You got $500 in my wallet. There’re plenty of tellys close by. Check into one for the night. Let a load off and tomorrow afternoon meet me at the bar in the Ritz Carlton.” Kareem looked at the duffle bag and guessed that money or drugs or both were inside.