God Luv Us

Chapter One – Strong Bullfrogs In Juffair-3

In his hand he held a long syringe, filled with a truth agent cooked up by a Robert Charles chemist. As I rubbed my fingers underneath the cold running water, I peered into the mirror and watched as Anthony gathered his strength before blasting open Jared’s stall door. In one quick motion, Anthony grabbed Jared’s long hair, jerking his head to one side and exposing his meaty neck. Before he could react, Anthony jammed the sharp needle into his neck and compressed the syringe. For a few seconds, he tried to scream, but the DJ’s loud music and my running water muted Jared’s whimpers for help.

Still holding him down, Anthony looked back at me wearing an adrenaline-induced smile, eagerly awaiting my approval. Without words, I shut off the water and dried my hands with several paper towels before wiping away my fingerprints. As I tossed the drenched towels into the trash bin, I felt my cellphone vibrate inside my pocket. Pulling it out, I looked at the screen and noticed it was Jessica. After silencing the phone, I slowly walked in front of the stall and stared down at a sleepy-eyed Jared. Seeing his once tense body go limp, I knew the truth agent had begun to run its course.

“You only have two options here” I explained. “The first option involves a lot of pain and certain death. The second option entails you giving my partner the answers he’s asking for.”

“If you choose option number two, none of your clients will necessarily know you helped us. You’ll just wake up in your bed tomorrow morning and your white associates won’t know a thing.”

“But if you’re silly enough to choose option number one….if you go that route…well God help you and your young daughter,” I conveyed.

Jared’s lazy eyes seemed to come alive when he heard me rattle off the school and home address of his thirteen-year-old daughter. In a loss for words, Anthony and I watched as tears ran down his blood red cheeks. He was in a bad spot, and he knew it.

“You’ve got two minutes, Anthony,” I instructed. “Get the address from him and clean up once your done.”

I unlocked the bathroom door and made my way through the dance floor to the bar’s entrance. Stepping outside, I was immediately greeted by the midnight heat of Bahrain. Instantly, I felt my skin began to sweat as the smothering humidity engulfed me. Grabbing my cellphone, I unlocked it and connected to the lounge’s Wi-Fi. After opening a browser, I logged onto 6zeros.net, a social media platform designed and built by friends of Robert Charles. After scrolling through the site’s discussion forums, I accessed a secure communications thread only available to those approved by Robert Charles. Clicking on Jessica’s username, I typed an instant message and hit the send button.

“Hey baby,” I sent.

“I see you’re still awake,” she sarcastically replied.

“Whatever you’re doing on your little vacation over there…. you need to finish it up and get back home right now.”

Looking at my watch, I noticed it was near mid-night in Bahrain, which would have made it around lunch time in New Orleans. After wiping sweat from my forehead, I unbuttoned my collar, preparing myself for Jessica’s rant.

“This will be our last night here,” I responded. “I should be heading to the airport real soon.”

“Well, when you land be ready to get right to work,” she cryptically wrote. “We both will be on the clock. We’ll need to follow up on some work we did for one of our favorite clients.”

“What happened, Jessica? Is everything alright?” I sent.

“Achim, just browse through the Cookout section on 6zeros when you get on the plane. That ought to be enough to get you up to speed before you land,” she replied.

Fully understanding her coded message, I sent Jessica a goodnight emoji and patiently waited for a response. She never sent it, so I placed my cellphone back inside my pocket before leaning up against the wall. When Jessica resigned from the NOPD, we both decided to open our own Private Investigation business. Aunt Rita supported the venture, providing us with a large loan which we used to purchase a small commercial office in downtown New Orleans. I fully believed in the idea, thinking it was the perfect cover. I could conceal most of my activities as an assassin, behind the legitimacy of being a P.I.

Ironically, our favorite client happened to be the Chief of Police, Superintendent Mark Spann. Better known publicly as Pokey, Mark Spann took over as Chief of NOPD after the White Nationalist scandal became public. I hadn’t known Pokey for long, but he seemed to be an honest cop, and not just the typical boot licking Boule types we normally see in high places. Pokey didn’t look the part at all. He was a big jolly brother from very humble beginnings. Yet, behind his overweight exterior, was a black man that could correctly read the streets. Having grown up in the bowels of the 7th Ward, he knew his people and understood their daily challenges.

He begged Jessica not to resign from the force. Given the situation he was inheriting at the NOPD, I could hardly blame him for not wanting her to leave. Pokey needed good cops and Jessica was one of his best and brightest, but neither of us trusted the situation. There was no way he could guarantee her safety in a police department that was still stained by corruption and overflowing with Race Soldiers with an axe to grind. From a distance, Jessica and I committed ourselves towards helping Pokey, but that help would have to come with a certain degree of detachment.

Whenever Pokey needed a trusted ally to investigate a sensitive NOPD issue or provide the unvarnished truth, Jessica and I got the call. For us, the pay was good, but the access to power was even better for Robert Charles. He had no idea who I really was and who I truly worked for, and I wanted to keep it that way. For now, he only needed to know that I was the co-owner of Silent Endeavors Investigative Services.

In the back of my mind, I was always worried about Pokey somehow catching wind of my ties to Robert Charles. For that very reason, my real job as a Counter-Racist Hitman had to remain hidden. As I scanned through the trending threads on 6zeros, I could only hope that my cover hadn’t been blown.

While my private worries pulled my attention away from the mission, the bar’s front entrance swung open. Heavy bass accompanied a nervous looking Anthony outside. He was rubbing his hands feverishly and even from a good distance away, I could smell his lemon-scented hand sanitizer. Several small red drops of blood were visible on his sleeve, and the crotch area of his brown dress pants was wet. Then I noticed the bleeding scratch below his left eye. Looking at my watch, it finally dawned on me that he was five minutes late.

“What the hell did you just do?” I instinctively asked.

“He woke up, Achim,” Anthony murmured in his Bahamian accent.

“The shot wore off. I had to inject him again to keep him quiet. Now he’s sitting in that stall unconscious and struggling to breathe.”

He pulled the vial out of his pocket and handed it over. Feeling its lack of weight, I immediately knew he had emptied it. Anthony had used the entire bottle on this damn guy. One injection was more than strong enough to put a grown man out for a whole day, yet Anthony had used the entire vial, which held three full shots. If Jared Spillers lived to see the sunrise in the morning, it would be a fuckin miracle. This was the kind of trouble our greedy Russian counterparts wanted to avoid. If pushed up against a wall, I knew they would rat us out to the Bahraini authorities, if they didn’t end up killing us themselves. It was time to execute a contingency plan. We both needed to get the hell out of dodge, and fast.

“Anthony, did you at least clean up?”

“Yeah, Achim. Everything’s sanitized,” he replied. “I wiped down everything I touched. That’s why I’m running late.”

“How about the address? Were you able to get it?” I followed up.

“Yes, Jared gave me the address before he passed out. Trevor Hancock is hiding in Buffalo….”

“Alright, you can fill me in later,” I loudly broke in. “We better get a move on.”

“First we go to my hotel,” I laid out.

“We’ll both change clothes and pick up my luggage. I have two plane tickets on standby. The earliest flight leaves at 1:30 AM. So if we hurry, we can fly outta here and probably be in Amsterdam before the medical examiners find your needle marks on Jared’s neck.”

I turned and slowly walked towards the parking lot, allowing Anthony to jet in front of me to unlock his doors. In total silence, Anthony drove us to the Gulf Hotel and we went straight to my room. Within eight minutes, we were walking out of the lobby wearing different attire and carrying my bags. As we pulled away from the hotel, I looked at my watch to check the time. It was now twenty minutes past midnight. The bar would be closing at 1AM and if the employees hadn’t already discovered Jared’s body, they would within the next ten minutes for sure. If Jared was indeed dead inside that stall, our Russian hosts will probably spill the beans and the Bahraini police will begin searching for us any minute now.

“Don’t speed or break any laws, but we really need to push it,” I advised. “The sooner we get through Bahraini Customs, the better.”

Anthony nodded and gripped the wheel. He pushed down on the accelerator and we coasted through the narrow streets of Bahrain. Within five minutes, we had arrived. The late-night emptiness of the local airport was to our ultimate advantage. Ten minutes after arriving, we ditched the rental car and checked into our flight. Fifteen minutes later, we both passed through security and turned in our visas to customs. Our contingency plan was well-thought-out, prudent and most importantly, working.

As we walked to our gate, my cellphone vibrated, so I pulled it out of my pocket. It was a call from our Russian friend. I ignored the call and proceeded on without a thought of answering. Minutes later, my phone once again erupted with noise, this time a long series of angry text messages. After opening the first two, I got his point and saw no need to continue reading his rant. Our Russian friend and his gangster bosses were rightfully pissed, but I didn’t give a damn.

The Bahraini police force and U.S. Embassy Officials were crawling all over their bar and asking all sorts of questions. A White American citizen had been killed, so someone had to take the blame and that person wouldn’t be me. As I powered off my cellphone and boarded the plane, I felt secure enough to order a cup of coffee before we hit the runway. I kept my damn promise and I hadn’t personally killed anyone. The dead white American was all their problem now, not mine.

These European bastards are infamous for recruiting among the poor countries of Africa, flying young Ethiopian women into Bahrain and stealing their passports and visas. Once they have them, they withhold pay, sexually abuse them and control their ability to return home to safety. All of this is a human rights violation, and just another form of quasi-s*****y. For me, this is a small taste of Black justice. The culture vulture DJ should count himself lucky that I allowed him to live.