“Yeah, man, let’s go before the cops come,” Saddam said nervously, looking at the door. With all the commotion and shots that were fired, he was sure that someone must have called the police by now.
Danny rose slowly to his feet, tears pouring down his disfigured face. He pulled his gun from his waist and almost robotically he walked over to the bed where Cobra was still fighting against the claws of death.
“Plea... Plea... Please,” Cobra begged a little above a whisper, froth and blood spurting from his mouth, his hands pressed against the bloody holes in his chest, his gun lying useless on the bed beside him.
“Let’s get out of here before the cops come,” Saddam repeated. “Look at him. He’s as good as dead.” He tucked his gun into his waist.
But that wasn’t good enough for Danny. He leaned over and rested his gun in the middle of Cobra’s forehead. “You killed my sister,” he muttered before pulling the trigger, spraying Cobra’s brains all over the pillow. “Now, he’s dead.” Danny slipped the gun into his waist.
Saddam grabbed Danny’s arm and rushed to the door. “Let’s go.”
The two men dashed to a Nissan Sunny parked a few feet away.
As the getaway car lost itself in the flow of traffic, a lone figure raised himself from his hiding place behind the huge dumpster. The man reached for the cell phone in his pocket to make an urgent call, flicking his long dreadlocks over his shoulder. “Hello, Prophet?” he said when the phone was answered on the other end. “It’s me.”
Chapter Thirty-three
“I’m glad you’re spending some time with the kids and me,” Monica purred, nestling farther back into Suave’s chest as they spooned on the long leather couch in the living room, his hands rubbing her huge stomach. The couple had less than five weeks to go before their third child was born.
The shouting and giggling of the kids playing in their room filtered into the living room.
“You know I always try to spend time with you guys.” Suave’s eyes were closed as he tried to relax his body. He had been on edge ever since that disastrous night in Spanish Town, and it was wearing him down.
“Uh-huh, and don’t think you’re going anywhere tonight,” Monica warned.
Just then, Suave’s personal cell phone that was on the coffee table beside them went off. And immediately, so did his business phone that was beside it.
Monica sucked her teeth loudly in frustration. “You better let them go to voicemail.”
With his eyes still closed, Suave replied, “Do you see me moving? I’ll call them back later.” Both phones stopped ringing—before they started to ring again.
“It must be important.” Suave gently pushed on Monica’s back, and she raised her body so he could swing his legs off the couch. He reached over for his personal cell phone; it was an unknown number. “Yes?”
“From the grave cometh my grief and pain,” Prophet responded in his gravelly voice. “My... my... soul is pierced by the agony and the evil deed of the devil.” And the old man began sobbing.
Alarmed, Suave jumped to his feet, a sinking feeling in his gut. “What’s wrong, Prophet?”
“Cobra.”
“What’s wrong with Cobra?” Suave whispered. Please, God, say it is not so.
“Murdered.”
The cell phone fell from Suave’s shaking hand, and he collapsed to his knees. Rolling himself into a ball on the floor, Suave howled like a tortured, caged jackal.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” Monica sprang up and awkwardly kneeled beside her grieving man. “What’s going on?”
But Suave continued to wail in excruciating pain.
Monica reached for the cell phone on the floor and brought it to her ear. Prophet was still on the line weeping. “Hello? Who is this?” She listened for a few seconds as Prophet told her of Cobra’s death before she too started to cry. Cobra had been a huge part of Suave’s life and, as such, a part of Monica’s too. “We’ll call you back,” Monica mumbled before flipping the phone closed.
She drew Suave into her arms and held him as he mourned the demise of his best friend.
* * *
“Cheers, my brother.” Later that night, Suave lifted the whiskey bottle into the air, spilling some of the whiskey on his chest. He was drunk. “Friends for life, Cobra.” Suave burped loudly before taking a long sip, emptying the bottle before it slipped from his trembling fingers to the floor. With half of his buttock hanging off the bar stool, his back braced against the counter, Suave’s glazed eyes peered unseeingly into the dark bar.
Immediately, his cell phone rang in his jeans. He fumbled, taking it out of his pocket. Maybe it’s Daddy Lizard. Flipping the phone open, through half-closed eyes, Suave saw that it was Pat calling. Swearing aloud, he threw the phone against the wall, shattering it into pieces. “I should just go and kill that punk.” His words slurred. He was a drunken mess.
Moments after hearing about Cobra’s murder, Suave had found enough strength to pull himself off the floor, slipped on his sneakers, and fled the house ignoring Monica’s protests. He drove aimlessly around Kingston City, the tears pouring down his face until he ended up in front of his bar in Rema.
Suave parked the car and dragged himself out before he paused. He glanced at the solemn faces of a group of his men standing on the sidewalk and knew the news of Cobra’s death had already made its way to them.
The men nodded respectfully at him, but no one spoke. The look on their boss’s face showed no conversation was welcomed.
Burke, one of Suave’s bar managers, stepped forward. “I cleared everyone out after I heard and was just about to close up.”
