Heist 2 Page 13

  Twenty minutes after lights out, I heave a frustrated breath and turn away from the iron bars. When I do, RaShawn surprises me with a mean right hook that snaps my head back.

  What the fuck? I recover quickly and unleash a series of punches that fucks Ra all the way up.

  Brothers from the other cages hoot and holler, egging on the fight. An alarm sounds and the lights come back up. By the time our cell number is called and our bars are opened, I’ve reduced Ra to a bloody pulp. I’m still swinging and trying to get at this nigga despite the guards prying us apart.

  Next thing I know, they are beating me over the head and dragging me to solitary confinement. At the sight of me covered in Ra’s blood and still fighting the guards, the cheers go up. I even get a standing ovation.

  After I’m forced through several electronic doors, one of the guards hisses Goon’s name. That shit cuts through my angry fog with a quickness. I’m not taken to solitary but toward the medical wing. When the guards can tell that they’ve gotten my attention, a series of instructions are whispered to me.

  At the next door, I make a grab for one of the guard’s batons and start whacking away. Making it look good, the second guard goes for his weapon, but I knock him out with a hard uppercut with the baton. Both dudes down, I snatch the set of keys from one of their hips and then race through the open door, hook a right like instructed and follow the short maze to a personnel door that leads to where most guards take their smoking breaks.

  I push all fear of the dudes in the watchtowers and random search lights aside and make a mad dash to the farthest left side of the first fence. Once there, I feel around on the grass and find a pair of wire cutters, stolen from the workshop by a member of the Gangster Disciples. I get through the fence within minutes and then race toward the next fence. This one is barbed. My only option is to climb—quickly and carefully. Ten minutes later, my own blood is added to the mix on my torn prison uniform. My hands alone feel like Swiss cheese. A mile jog down the road, I spot a car. I made it. I’m fucking free.

  5

  Sam

  The US Marshal Service

  “We have a runner,” I announce to my team of five. After a long groan, everyone’s heads swivel toward the big clock on the wall to read that it’s edging toward midnight.

  “I know. I know. You all want to go home. Trust me, I’d like nothing better to go home, get out this wired bra, and toss back a couple of brewskies, but we’re the next team up.”

  “How can that be?” my left-hand man, Greg, asks. “We just captured Juan Murais and dragged his ass back to Jersey not three hours ago.”

  I can only shrug. “Look. The call just came in. The prison has completed their sweep and they are certain that one”—I look down at my notepad—“Harlem Richard Banks is missing.”

  “Why do I know that name?” Max asks, frowning.

  “Because you know every damn body,” I say, only half joking. The rest of the team laughs, nodding in agreement. “Quick notes,” I continue, approaching the corkboard. “The talented Mr. Banks is a jack of all trades, apparently. Over the years, he has beeped on the FBI’s radar at one time or another. The only case anyone has ever been able to make stick was an arms charge five years ago. Him and his partner, Isaiah Kane, were sentenced to ten years but clearly that was five years too long for Mr. Banks.”

  Everyone starts clicking and clacking on computers to pull up Banks’s record.

  “At the moment, he has about a two-hour head start. Renee, Nick, and Frank, I need for you guys to head over to the prison for their official report and conduct the interviews. Pull the visitors’ logs while you’re at it.”

  “We’re on it, boss,” Frank says, jumping up. Despite the smile on his face, I know that it’s the rings around his eyes that reflect how he truly feels about us taking yet another case in the middle of the night.

  “The rest of us,” I say, “will get on whether our fugitive will make the usual mistakes by contacting family or friends.”

  “If this cat is half as slippery as you suggest, I think that it’s a safe bet that he’s in the wind. He’s probably halfway to Mexico as we speak,” Greg says.

  I chuckle and grab my coffee cup that I left cooling on a desk earlier. “Oh ye of little faith.” I take a sip and then spit it back out. “Ugh. It’s cold.”

  “You know, just because you have a forty-six and oh record doesn’t mean that you’re invincible,” Greg continues.

  “How come I always get the sense that you’re rooting for me to fail?”

  Greg flashes me a loopy grin. “Nah. I’m waiting for you to prove that you’re human.”

  “Awww. You say the nicest things.” I snatch up my US Marshals jacket. “I changed my mind. We’re all going out to the site.” I toss him the car keys. “Let’s go. You drive.”

  Sighing, Greg stands. “Yes, ma’am, Miss Daisy.”

  We arrive at the federal prison thirty minutes later. Sheriff Lee Walton is the first to shake my hand and update me on the checkpoints his officers have up every fifteen miles and how his department are combing every road, backstreet and alley. But with budget cuts being what they are . . .

  “Good. Good job.” I flash him a smile. However, I can tell that he’s too busy assessing my five-foot-two, one-hundred-pound body and probably wondering how in the hell I’m an assistant deputy chief with the US Marshals. But I’ve always believed, like Bruce Lee, that might can be light.

  The prison’s warden is the next to shake my hand. A big robust man, he’s upset about how this jailbreak happened. When he gears up to rant about all of his security measures and how something like this has never happened, I cut him off. “I’m sure all your men performed admirably,” I assure him. “I’m only interested in capturing the fugitive.”

  “Uh, yes, ma’am. I—I just finished talking to a few of your guys. They’re going over Banks’s records here—but I have to tell you, before tonight, the guy has stayed below the radar.”

  Greg and I share another look at our earlier phrasing.

  “In five years, he has had just one write-up: a fight, between him and another inmate. But that was years ago. He’d since settled in and has been as quiet as a church mouse. Then tonight: BAM! He unleashes holy hell on his cellmate. The man is trying to breathe through a fucking tube as we speak. Something must’ve happened to make him snap.”

  I nod. “The average foot speed for a healthy adult is four miles per hour. We’re now rolling on approximately three hours behind. That’s twelve miles.”

  “Unless he had a car waiting for him,” the warden suggests.

  “Clearly. In that case he can be as far as two or three states away.” I cock my head at the helpful warden. “You have any reason to believe this was a planned jailbreak instead of a spontaneous opportunity that presented itself?”

  “To be honest with you, ma’am, I don’t know what to think.”

  “It looks like we’re in for a long night.” Greg sighs.

  “Is there any other kind?” I ask before walking away. It’s not that I’m unsympathetic to Greg. He can be cranky when he’s tired. I, on the other hand, enjoy the adrenaline a fresh hunt gives me. A worthy prey can be mentally stimulating. I’m hoping that Harlem Banks is such a prey.

  6

  Harlem

  “Baby, wake up.”

  My six-year-old baby, Tyler, peels open her eyes and then a smile spreads across her face. “Daddy? Is it really you?”

  “Shh.” I place a finger against my lips to let her know that she needs to keep her voice down so that we don’t wake her grandmother. That’s the last thing that I want. “Yes. It’s really me,” I tell her, unable to resist stroking her chubby cheeks. “How is my pretty girl feeling?”

  “I’m good,” she says bravely.

  A knot lodges and tightens in my throat. She’s so small and so perfect. It’s not fair that her little heart doesn’t work right.

  “Are you going to stay forever?” Hope shines in her eyes.<
br />
  For the first time in a long while, tears burn the backs of my eyes. “I wish that I could, baby girl.”

  “Ooh.” Tyler’s bottom lip stretches down and trembles.

  “Daddy has to go and get some money so that you can have that surgery to fix your heart. You understand that, don’t you?”

  She sighs, probably from the thought of more surgery. “Well, after you get some money, then can you come live with me and Granny?”

  I flash a smile. “We’ll see.” Those big brown eyes see right through me, but she smiles anyway. Leaning down, I brush another kiss against her forehead. As much as I love Johnnie and regret messing things up with her, Tyler is my heart. Always has been since the doctors placed her in my arms. No one ever told me how a baby girl could wrap you around her little finger. It’s not too surprising that Tyler has developed heart problems. Her mother, Keisha, wasn’t able to stay away from the glass pipe the entire nine months she carried Tyler. After Keisha delivered her, she went back to her crack until she was found dead in a Brooklyn back alley a few months ago.

  I kiss her again and wish that I could’ve brought her something. Tyler throws her arms around my neck and kisses me back. “I love you, Daddy.”

  “I love you, too, baby girl.” We squeeze each other tight. She still smells brand new with baby powder clinging to her skin. “All right now. You gotta go back to sleep.”

  “Aww. Do I have to? You just got here,” she asks, yawning and rubbing her eyes.

  “Yeah. I’m sorry, baby. But you’ll see me again.”

  “When?” After another yawn, her eyes droop low.

  “Soon,” I lie, but I hope I’m telling the truth, if that makes a difference.

  “Okay.”

  “Good night, baby.” One last kiss and I stand up from the bed and creep out of the bedroom. The second I close the door, the light in the living room clicks on.

  Standing on the other side of the room with a twelve-gauge shotgun is Nana Gloria, but at least the damn thing isn’t pointed at my head.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks warily. “How are you here?”

  “I needed a place to shower and clean up. Plus to pick up this.” I gesture to my bag that holds about everything I’m going to need for my coming road trip. “As for the how, maybe the less you know, the better.”

  She sighs just like Tyler while her entire body droops. “Harlem, baby. What are you doing? They’re going to catch you and then you’ll never get out of that damn prison.”

  “I gotta get you that money, Nana.”

  Some of the disappointment erases, but she remains cautious. “How? You said that people were watching.”

  “They are, but I’m hoping I’m a little quicker than they are.” We search each other’s gazes. I can tell that she wants to believe me. “I am going to get you that money.”

  Her eyes wet up while an internal conflict rages on inside of her. “We really could use that money,” she says.

  “I know.”

  After another beat, she gives a nod. A good sign that she’s not going to turn me in herself. It’s fucked up, but she’s done it before. I was nine and had stolen some candy from the corner store. When she came into my room without knocking, she caught me and Isaiah overdosing on Red Hots and Milk Duds. To our shock, she called the police. The boys in blue came and slapped on the handcuffs and then drove us downtown.

  I was scared as shit, but both Isaiah and I were determined not to show it.

  The store’s owner, being a member of Nana’s church, didn’t press charges, so our punishment ended up being a few long lectures from the police, the store owner, Nana’s pastor and, worst of all, Nana Gloria.

  But none of that shit deterred us from a life of crime—to Nana’s great disappointment.

  “Have you eaten?” she asks.

  “Yeah.” The silence grows awkward. “I gotta go.”

  She nods. Her eyes wet.

  Despite the mean looking gun, I cross the room and sweep her into a big embrace.

  She melts in my arms. “Oh, Harlem. Please be careful.”

  “I will.” I hold her tighter. Despite her feeling like home, I release her and head out the door.

  7

  Johnnie

  The wedding rehearsal is running waaay late. I’m starting to worry about my not being thrilled about the big day tomorrow. The rest of the wedding party clearly is, especially my parents and my fiancé, Reese Singleton. However, I keep smiling and nodding, but so far, no dice. My best friend, Janine, is catching on. More than once she’s pulled me aside to ask whether everything is all right. Each time I’ve wanted to tell her that I couldn’t breathe, or maybe someone should rush me to the emergency room, but I don’t dare.

  Instead, I plaster on a stupid smile and watch my family and friends make one toast after the other. Each of them trills on about how much Reese, the city’s rising political star, and I make the perfect couple. We’re attractive, driven, and successful in our own rights. Surely we’re going to be the next Barack and Michelle.

  So why don’t I feel it—or believe it?

  On paper, every box is checked. Most women in New York would slit my throat to be able to walk down the aisle toward Reese. Me? I’m still thinking about a damn criminal locked down in a federal penitentiary. He’s a sexy criminal, but a criminal all the same.

  I shouldn’t have pulled those strings for that conjugal visit last month. Now he’s in my system again. After I’d worked so hard to get him out. I’m lucky that all I got was a broken heart when the truth came out about him. If I had married him, or gone public, it would have entangled my parents’ good name and it would have been a disaster of epic proportions. It’s important that I keep reminding myself of that, but throughout the course of this long-ass dinner, I can’t stop thinking about how Harlem’s hands felt all over my body last month. How wonderful his mouth felt delving into my pussy. The memory is so strong that I close my eyes and do a small roll of my hips as if I was sitting there naked in his lap at this very moment.

  Reese leans over to ask, “Tired, babe?”

  Startled, I snatch my eyes open and then flutter a guilty smile his way. “Nah. I’m good.”

  “Great.” He plants a sloppy kiss on the side of my face, close to my damn eyeball. He’s drunk—again.

  “Another toast,” my father, Governor Charles Robinson, shouts, lifting his glass again. He’s just as drunk as Reese. I can’t tell whether my mother is equally annoyed or just grinning and bearing it like I am.

  I’m ready to go. After all, it’s well past one in the morning. Thank God the wedding isn’t until tomorrow afternoon. Judging by the faces surrounding me, there are going to be quite a few people nursing hangovers in a few hours.

  Dad’s toast turns into a rambling mess, but Reese saves him by standing and thanking him nonetheless.

  “It’s going to be a pleasure to call you son,” Dad says, swinging his arms around Reese’s neck.

  “And I’m going to be thrilled to call you dad.”

  I halfway expect them to start making out the way they’re carrying on. Maybe he should be the one to marry Reese tomorrow.

  “You’re frowning again,” Janine whispers. “Are you sure that you’re all right?”

  I don’t have it in me to lie again. “Maybe I am a little tired.”

  She looks over at Reese and sees that he and my dad are still chuckling it up. “Did you drive?” Janine asks me.

  “No. I rode here with Reese.”

  “Well, if you want, I can take you home,” she suggests. “A bride must get her beauty sleep.”

  Bride. My heart drops like a stone.

  “Yeah. Let’s get you home. You don’t look too good.”

  I grab my purse and make my excuses as we try to make our way out of the restaurant.

  Reese puts in a weak attempt to say that he can take me home, but then thanks Janine for offering to do it herself. “Guess that means that the next time I see you it’ll
be in front of the preacher,” he jokes.

  “Guess so.” My smile cracks.

  “Our last night as two hot single people.” A thought occurs to him. “Hey, maybe I should drive you home?” When he wiggles his groomed brows at me, I’m nauseous.

  “No. None of that until after the ceremony and I’m Mrs. Reese Michael Singleton.” I glue on another smile.

  “Can’t blame a brother for trying.” He winks.

  Was he always this cheesy? “Enjoy your last night of freedom,” I tell him and brush a chaste kiss against his cheek. I don’t realize how much I needed fresh air until we’re outside waiting for the valet.

  But once I’m tucked into Janine’s black Mercedes, she goes on and on about how excited I must be and how lucky I am, but also carries on about the black woman’s burden: finding a good man.

  Oh God. I don’t think that I can do this.

  The forty-minute drive to my house in Greenwich, Connecticut, feels like forever, mainly because Janine never stops talking.

  “Thanks for the ride.” I unbuckle my seatbelt and open the car door almost at the same time.

  “Want me to come in? We can have our last girls’ pajama party before you’re a married woman.”

  “No, girl. I really do need to hit the sack. It’s been a long day.”

  “I feel ya. See you tomorrow.”

  After exchanging cheek-kisses, I climb out of the car and rush to my front door in front of the bright spotlight from her car’s high beams. Once I get the door unlocked, I wave back to her and enter the house.

  Inside, I collapse back against the door and again wonder what in the hell I got myself into. “It’s just wedding jitters,” I whisper into the dark.

  A deep voice rings out from the darkness. “Or you’re about to marry the wrong dude.”

  “What? Who’s there?” I demand, panicked.

  A light clicks on and my breath seizes in my chest. “Hello, Johnnie.”