Trap House (37 page)

The agents would have never guessed that one of the boys had doubled back and waited on
them as they searched upstairs trying to kill the twins. The agents never got the chance to turn
around before Twon let off eight shots of thunder, four from each gun, and all the bullets hit their
targets. Reynolds caught the worst of the gunfire. One shot completely smashed in the back of his
head, and three more buried in his back. He was dead before he hit the ground. Phillips took two
slugs high in his back, with the force from the impact completely spinning him around until he
found himself sitting on his ass in the middle of the kitchen.

“You fucking nigger, you shot me!” Phillips said in a grimacing voice as he felt his body. Twon
walked closer to the fallen agent, avoiding his partner’s brains that were leaking all over the floor,
until he was standing over Phillips looking down at him.

“You’re going to jail for life, you little shit, just like your fath…” Phillips never got the chance
to finish his sentence before the whole right side of his face seemed to disappear from the eight
rounds Twon squeezed off into Phillip’s face.

“Fuck you, pussy,” was all Twon said as he put up his smoking guns and made his way out of
the back door to his brother waiting in the agents’ car.

“Hurry up and close the door, it’s cold outside mu’fucka,” Qwon said as he pulled away from the curb.

“Fuck you, you could be as cold as them two fuckas in the house,” Town replied. They both
started laughing as they headed for their next destination.

“The gas attendant said to keep straight for five to ten miles out of the city limits and to play
close attention because the street signs are hard to spot. He also said he didn’t understand why
anybody would want to go out there—it’s nothing but a bunch of abandoned warehouses,” Qwon
said as he sped off down the road in search of Harmony Lane.

After damn near twenty minutes, Twon finally spotted it.

“That’s it, Qwon, right there,” Twon said as he pointed toward a narrow road that looked like
it led to nowhere.

After five minutes on the dirt road, they could see in the distance the warehouse the gas station
attendant was talking about. As they approached, they looked nervously at the three buildings that
stood in the middle of nowhere. The Crown Vic came to an abrupt stop in front of the biggest of
the three buildings.

“1-6-22, right?” Qwon asked as he squinted to see the numbers on the building.

“Yeah, that’s it, but you don’t have to stop the car like you crazy. If you would have made me
hit my head, I would have fucked you up,” Twon said.

“Whatever, get your ass out of the car and let’s check this place out,” Qwon replied as he got
out of the car.

“This shit look crazy,” Qwon said as he looked around.

“Man, bring your sorry ass on,” Twon replied as he turned and headed toward the building.

As they reached the door, they were unable to look through the windows. They seemed to be
covered with paint. As they opened the door and stepped inside, the only lighting that came in
through the skylight offered little help as the sun was just about to go down. They could barely
make out the maze of pallets damn near stacked to the ceiling.

“We gotta find some light, I can barely see shit,” Twon said.

“I hope this old ass place got some light. If not, what we gonna do then?”

“I don’t know, we’ll worry about that later. We wasting time now because the sun is going
completely down in a few minutes. Let’s split up and get to looking,” Twon answered.

“Yeah, you’re right, but be careful. I gotta funny feeling about this place,” said Qwon.

“Now who’s scared, wit’ your soft ass.”

“Fuck you, Twon, just be careful, a’ight?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Twon replied as he made his way toward the left side of the warehouse,
leaving Qwon no choice but to take the right.

Twon made his way through the maze, working cautiously. He couldn’t help but worry if his
brother was okay. He was trying to stay focused on the task at hand when he heard a noise that
made him stop and listen.

“Qwon, is that you?” Twon said, but there was no response.

Twon wasted no time pulling one of his guns from his waistline as he continued to the end of
the row. There, to his left, was a stairway and on that wall next to the bottom of the stairs looked
to be a power box. All he could think was,
Please, let this shit work.
As he approached the box,
the lever was down in the off position, so Twon grabbed the rusty handle and pushed it up, and
within seconds the once dark warehouse was full of light. Twon’s relief only lasted for a second
as he felt the cold feeling of steel pressed against the back of his head and heard a voice that was
even colder.

“Drop the fucking gun before I put your brains all over that wall,” the grimy voice demanded.

Twon wasted not a second letting it hit the ground, knowing whoever it was had caught his ass slipping for
real.

“Nigga, if you don’t get that gun off my brother’s head, you gonna die where you stand,”
Qwon said as he stood holding both his cannons pointed at the stranger that held his brother at
gunpoint.

“A’ght, shorty, be easy, don’t get jumpy. I didn’t mean any harm,” the man replied as he raised
his hands up in a surrendering motion. Twon was sure happy to hear his brother. He thought for
sure he was about to die.

“Now, give me a reason why I shouldn’t kill you, mu’ fucka?” Qwon asked the man as his
fingers itched to pull the triggers.

The man started laughing as he gave his answer. “I’ll tell you why, twins, ‘cause I’m your Uncle
Red.”

* * * * *

A whisper was all he heard as King sat on the edge of his bed. “They’re gonna try and kill you
when you go to court,” the whispering voice said. All King could hear were the footsteps walking
away as he lay back on his bed, knowing death was around the corner.

* * * * *

The twins hadn’t seen their Uncle Red since they were eight years old, but they weren’t deaf
to the stories they’d heard about him in the streets. Red was one of the most dangerous men alive
in the city. Heartless, cold blooded, and, not to mention, he had the natural instincts of a hit man.
Nobody crossed King or Red without getting a visit from death. Once Red was on your trail, there
was no getting away. After King and Red took the throne from Big Tony, Red killed anybody that
stood in their way. If you weren’t with them, you were dead. If you were late with money, you
were dead. If you talked to the police, you most definitely were dead. Once King got locked up,
Red disappeared into the shadows of the city, and ten years later he stood in a warehouse laughing
at his nephews.

“Uncle Red!” the boys said simultaneously as most twins did. He wasn’t as big as their father, but they
looked almost identical from the long braids that covered their heads to the gold trims that covered their teeth.
You knew they were brothers. Red’s skin tone was a few shades lighter than King’s, but he stood six-four like
his brother.

“Damn, I ain’t seen y’all since y’all was this high,” Red said, holding his hand down by his
thigh. “Now look at y’all all grown up and shit. Well, I know y’all got a lot of questions, but we
ain’t got a lot of time, so the questions are gonna have to wait until later. Let’s roll, we got shit to
do.”

The boys never said a word, they just followed their uncle through the lit warehouse, wondering
to themselves what the fuck was going on.

* * * * *

Agent Fellows sat impatiently in his office as his secretary walked in. “Sir, Phillips and Reynolds aren’t
answering their phones, and nobody has heard from them since this morning,” his secretary stated.

“Well, keep calling,” Fellows snapped back at his secretary as he pointed toward the door for
her to leave. As soon as the door closed, Fellows pulled out his cell phone and begin dialing. The
phone rang until a deep, hoarse sounding voice answered on the other end.

“Yeah,” the voice answered.

“They’ll be moving him at three a.m. as a precaution for his safety. You’ll only have one chance,
so don’t fuck this up,” Agent Fellows said as he hit the end button on his phone. There weren’t
too many people that got away with talking to the Reaper like that, but Mike Fellows was one of
them.

The Reaper had been killing for the last fifteen years. He was known as the best hit man out
there. He was a real favorite of the Mafia and had made so much money from them that he was
set for life. But, it wasn’t about money with him anymore, it was the thrill of the kill. It was what
he called an art in the way he brought death upon someone. Once, he was on the sixtieth floor of a
building washing windows like an average window washer. When he saw his victim sit down at his
desk in front of his computer, that was when his signature AR-15 made quick work of the window
and the victim. By the time people realized what happened, he’d vanished. Now, he sat in his hotel
room studying a picture of his next victim, King.

Transporting King always seemed like a big event, even at three a.m. in the morning. He was
chained and cuffed, and then put in the back of the unmarked van. Two black Suburbans escorted
the van, one in the front and one in the back. Each was filled with four SWAT team members armed
and ready for war.

“We almost ready,” the gray haired captain said to the caravan.

The deputy driving the van responded in an inpatient voice, “We’re just waiting on the two
marshals that are supposed to ride in back with the prisoner, but they’re late, as usual.”

At that very moment, in walked the marshals – a heavy set white man, along with his pretty
brown partner. “I’m sorry we’re late. I’m Jones, this is Sullivan,” the lady marshal said as they
made their way toward the van.

“Well, I’m happy you could join us, Jones and Sullivan. Let’s get the show on the road,” the captain said as
he closed the Suburban door and gave the signal to open the garage.

They were about forty minutes from the city on a clear day, but it was beginning to snow so
they’d have to drive a little slower, which meant it may take them an extra thirty minutes. The ride
was actually smoother than they expected as they got off on the exit ramp that led into the city. As
they were coming down the hill toward the underpass, they could see flares by the roadside and a
police car up ahead. They thought someone was not as lucky as them. As they approached, they
saw an officer standing in the icy road putting out road flares. You could clearly see a collision
ahead at the four-way stop light. It was a van and a Camaro. The driver of the van looked to be
alright while he talked to the flare officer’s partner. The driver of the Camaro had clearly gone
through the windshield of his car and was lying in the street, covering the freshly fallen snow with
blood. The caravan slowly came to a halt as the flare officer approached the first black Suburban.