Killa Season 2: The Purge Page 8

  “Bless me father for I have sinned,” the cop stated as he crossed himself.

  “In what way?” the substitute pastor asked through the partition.

  “You name it. I’ve broken every trust, betrayed every covenant. My job, my family, my oaths. I’ve lied, cheated, stolen, even…killed,” he said contritely.

  “Killed? Who did you kill son?” Killa asked holding the gun to the partition. On a whim, he pulled his phone to record the confession. Little William’s family might enjoy it.

  “I’m a cop. Detective David Garnett,” he announced with both pride and shame audible in his voice. “I um…killed a man, a boy, actually. It was an accident. My partner said the kid was a drug runner. We were going to take his money to buy lunch. We did that a lot, rob people. Most of our days were spent robbing or extorting people. Hell, we went weeks on end without making an arrest. Just pay your bail on the spot and go on about your business.”

  “Who was the boy? Tell me about the boy you killed,” he urged. He already knew, but wanted it on tape.

  “His name was William Clayton. It was all over the news a few months back. Good kid, a freaking choirboy. I mean the kid actually sang in a choir! We made a monster out of him. Really soiled his image. Planted drugs in his pocket, a gun in his hand. Lied about run ins we had with him. His family knew it was some bullshit but…excuse me…”

  “That’s fine son. It is some bullshit. Please continue.”

  “What’s my penance Father? I’ll do anything. Charity, fasting, um…anything! Just tell me what to do!”

  “Kill yourself,” Killa suggested after stopping the recording. He aimed his gun through the partition again just in case he refused.

  “Really? That’s not to say I haven’t thought about it. My piece has been in my mouth twice this week.”

  “Do it. Do it now. Put your weapon in your mouth and pull the trigger,” he urged as his own finger tightened on his trigger. Either way, dude was dying.

  The cop’s service weapon sounded like an explosion as it went off in the small space. Killa rushed out of the stall and into the next. There was the cop staring off at whatever dead people stare at. The top of his head was open like a sunroof. Blood and brain matter dripped from the ceiling.

  “My nigga.”

  ****

  Killa caught the train back to the Bronx with back shots on his mind. It was all good until a kid plopped down beside him and started talking non-stop.

  “As salaamu alaykum!” the bright-eyed teen greeted.

  When Killa grunted a reply, he launched into his spiel. Killa stared out the window as the child rambled on with the enthusiasm of the newly indoctrinated. He was content to let him ramble until either of their stops came until something caught his attention.

  “Say that again!” Killa snapped his head and demanded.

  “It’s every Muslim’s duty to do Jihad! We must kill all infidels!” he repeated just as he had been taught. It was then that Killa noticed he was just a child. His features made him look twelve instead of his sixteen years.

  “Who told you that?” he asked turning his lips like ‘yeah right’ at the false teaching. The teacher would have gotten beat up if present.

  “My shake!” the kid said proudly. “Cut off their heads!”

  “Don’t you mean sheikh?” he corrected even though it had to be a shake and not a sheikh to feed him that mumbo jumbo. No real religious scholar would teach that to a kid.

  “Oh yeah, sheikh,” the kid corrected with a giggle. Killa’s son’s face flashed in his vision for a second.

  “I need to speak to this sheikh of yours,” Killa insisted. “Where is your masjid?”

  “We don’t have one. We meet at the sheikh’s apartment,” he said and gave the address. “This is my stop.”

  Killa returned the kid’s greeting and repeated the address to commit it to memory. The kid grunted as he heaved his heavy backpack onto his back. He couldn’t help but wonder what was in it. He didn’t have to wonder for long. Just as the train pulled away from the platform, the kid smiled, waved, and blew up.

  ****

  The massive blast totally erased the child and those closest to him. The shrapnel in the bomb spread out and claimed even more lives. The explosion rocked the departing train and knocked it off track. When it ground to a halt, Killa pried open a door and made his escape.

  Since he was no stranger to the underground labyrinth that was the subway, he easily maneuvered away. He used a service exit and climbed to the street above. Killa was far too traumatized to raise his hand to summon a taxi so he set out on foot. He crossed over to the Bronx on the 159th Street Bridge and hoofed it up the hill. Luckily, there were no Yolos or Docs around because he was in a daze. He didn’t even recognize his buzzing phone to answer it.

  “Are you ok?” Sincerity shouted when Killa walked into the apartment. She ran over and slammed into him so hard the hug ended up in the hallway.

  “Uh…yeah, I think so,” he replied unsurely. He had seen and caused plenty of deaths and destruction during his stay on the planet but what he’d just seen fucked him up.

  “They said a train blew up and I knew you were on that line. I been calling and calling and…”

  “Yo, I was right there. I seen that shit yo!” he said still amazed by it.

  “What kind of monster would do that? All of those people,” Sincerity moaned as they made their way back inside.

  “He was a kid. I was just talking to him and…” Killa frowned as the scene replayed in his head. He recalled clearly seeing both of the boy’s hands. “He didn’t set it off! He was murdered too!”

  Chapter 15

  The second deadliest terror attack in the city claimed over a hundred lives. In any other city, it would have topped the list but 9/11 was a tough act to follow. The boy and those closest to him were evaporated by the powerful blast. Thousands of pieces of shrapnel consisting of nuts, bolts, screws, and nails spread out claiming more lives. Of the survivors in area hospitals, several more were not expected to live. Some had limbs knocked off, none would ever be the same.

  Video of the attack was captured from eight different angles from eight different cameras. It took no time to put a name to the face of the bomber. In fact, it was his own mother who made the report. She couldn’t believe her son was responsible even after watching it over and over on every channel.

  Derrick Johnson or DJ as his single mother Jennah affectionately called him was by all accounts a good kid. An impressionable young boy looking for a father figure like most fatherless boys. Most of the boys sought refuge and tutelage from the drug dealers but not DJ. He was tricked by a charlatan Imam.

  The so-called sheikh Shajji was a complete sham. He was really a disgruntled former Army sergeant named William Dent. A complete fuck up who failed at everything he ever tried. Of course, that was the government’s fault. He still insisted that whitey was holding him back even though the president was black and his own mother was white.

  He was too black to join one of the white supremacy anti-government movements, and too light for any of the militant black groups. Like most Americans bombarded with anti-Muslim lies and propaganda he assumed the local Muslims would support his cause. The thought wrong because the majority of American Muslims are just that, American Muslims. Islam is their way of life and America is where they live. He was warned about attempting to spread his nonsense around the Muslims until they finally made him stay away.

  That’s when Sheikh Shajji decided to make his own sect. They were called the Islamic Revolution and were about as far away from Islam as could be. There was no prayer, no charity, no belief, and he wrote his own bible. The kid was right; he was a shake.

  Shajji’s congregation consisted of local teens who came over to smoke weed and watch terrorist propaganda videos. No one really believed him except young DJ. That’s how he ended up with a backpack full of explosives without knowing it.

  ****

  The FBI, DEA, ATF, CIA
, NSA, and BET were all on the case. When you have that many alphabets on your ass, it usually means trouble. Usually, but not always. In this case, the security agencies focused on Islamic groups, masjids, and schools. They got absolutely nowhere. Killa had something they didn’t have, an address.

  “823 Boston Road,” Killa repeated aloud as he had been for days since the bombing. The shock of the incident initially wiped it from his memory, but media references to the Boston Marathon bombing brought it back.

  He repeated it again as he stood in front of a tenement building bearing those same numbers. This was the where. Now he had to find the who. Killa stood there scrutinizing every face that came and went. He had just dismissed a forty something black man when he came out and lit a cigarette. Sheikhs don’t smoke menthols. Plus the man was clean-shaven and dressed like the teens dressed.

  “Sup Sheikh!” a youth called out in passing getting a salute in return. He had found the who, now came the how. Killa mentally debated on whether he should shoot him, stab him, choke him, or use the DC 2000…

  “Sup yo?” Sheikh Shajji asked when he noticed Killa staring at him. Good thing he couldn’t read minds because Killa’s was full of murder.

  “What’s up is the damn country, this damn president, congress…” he whined like anti-government types often do. It was bait and the sheikh bit.

  “I know, right!” he agreed and launched into one of his blame filled tirades. Everything was everyone else’s fault. Killa nodded in agreement with every lie and complaint. The sheikh had a new recruit.

  It took a few weeks of listening to his babble before being invited upstairs. As soon as they walked in, he knew he had his man. He saw several backpacks that matched the one carried by DJ. A table containing various components caught his eye. The casual observer would have dismissed it as clutter. Killa wasn’t the casual observer; he was a bomb expert himself.

  “What you know about that?” Shajji asked seeing his guest eyeing the hardware.

  “Nothing, but I’m ready to learn,” Killa replied with wide eager eyes.

  “It’s simple really. C-4 and or black powder, nuts, bolts, screws, and nails from the hardware store for shrapnel. The detonator is then attached to a cell phone. That way, I can set it off from here. Make the call, and instead of hello, it’s good bye.”

  “Mmm,” Killa grunted and held his composure. It was proof that the kid wasn’t a suicide bomber. He was a victim too. The shake was about to be a victim too.

  It took another week of blunts and videos before Killa was ready to make his move. The blunts were cool, but the videos were trash. A bunch of lies. In all the time he spent with the so-called Islamic extremist, the man never prayed once. Everyone knows Muslims have to pray five times a day but Shajji never did. All he did was smoke weed, drink beer, and eat ham and cheese sandwiches.

  “I’m ready. I want to be a martyr!” Killa announced triumphantly at the end of an Al-Qaeda video.

  “Prove it!” Shajji dared. “There’s a big peace rally downtown tomorrow, take a pack.”

  “I’ll do it,” he accepted. To prove it he rushed over and grabbed one of several identical backpacks from the table.

  The two men armed the device inside in total silence. When the shake went to relieve his bladder Killa made some adjustments of his own. The stage was set; it was show time.

  Shajji was going to miss the only adult company he had with Killa gone. At least the neighborhood teens would hang out to smoke weed with him. He watched the coverage of the peaceful rally waiting to see Killa. When he spotted the backpack, a sinister smile spread across his face. He made a big production of pressing each number and hitting the send button, but nothing happened.

  “Huh?” he asked when he saw Killa on screen answer the phone. “Hello?”

  “Not hello, good bye.” Killa laughed as the timer ran out of time.

  The shake tried to say something else, but the bomb turned him into confetti.

  “Who can I kill next?” Killa pondered aloud as he walked away. Luckily, for him, there were plenty of people in need of killing.

  Chapter 16

  “Chop…chop…chop…chop,” Sincerity’s vagina sang with each deep slow stroke of Killa’s thick dick.

  Her moans and whimpers sang back to her splashing box. His deep growl provided the bass to the sexual symphony. A fucking concert.

  “It’s talking to you daddy,” she purred and arched her back.

  “Mmm,” he replied listening to it squish and squelch beneath him. It was the elusive great pussy. 90% of all pussy is good, but great pussy is rare.

  Killa looked down and was treated to a private porno show as he watched himself slide in and out of his woman. A puddle of special sauce had accumulated at the base of his dick and begun to drip to the bed below. He felt her shiver, shake, and explode from yet another orgasm. Killa wasn’t far behind her.

  Truth be told, every time he fucked his girl doggy style, Yolo came to mind. The lovely little lunatic had some great pussy too and he couldn’t deny it. Not to mention it was brand new. He recalled pushing past her hymen into the comfortably cramped space. Every time he thought about it, the same thing happened…

  “Argh!” he grunted and released deep inside his woman. Any deeper and she would have had cum in her lungs. She could have drowned. He fought not to scream as she massaged his manhood with her strong vaginal muscles. Killa lost that battle and woke the baby.

  “Your turn,” Sincerity giggled and rolled out of the bed. Killa was too out of breath to complain and she got away. He got some get back by wiping the sex off him with her nightshirt. After pulling his pajama pants on, he scooped up his son.

  Sincerity returned from the shower with a smug smirk on her face. It was real funny until she pulled her shirt over her head and felt the wetness.

  “I swear I hate you!” she growled and giggled. “Just nasty! Watch your back homie.”

  “Homie?” Killa laughed.

  He realized how fortunate he was to have her in his life. A satisfied smile spread on his face as he watched her surf the web. Probably going on social media to brag about getting her boots knocked properly.

  “Ew! Nasty bastard,” she spat as she opened her inbox and saw a dick pic.

  “Let me find out you a wood watcher!” he laughed.

  “This nasty ass nigga keep flirting with me. I told him I was twelve and he sends me this! Child molesting ass…”

  “Child molester?” Killa asked excitedly. He was ready to purge once more and who better to brutally murder than a child molester!

  ****

  Thirty-year-old Adam Gulliam was a perverted child molester. Have him tell it, he just like them young. Real young and that was real sick. He deserved every bit of what was coming into his life. That fact that he invited it made it all the better.

  He made a fortune online and used it to rent little ghetto girls. There were plenty of young girls in his upscale Long Island town, but that was too risky. People cared about those kids. No, the little ghetto kids were safer, easier. A lot of times, he could swoop in, pick one up, take her home, exploit her, and get her home before her mother finished turning up.

  You would be surprised how many children are unsupervised online while Mama sips her malt liquor and arranges her spades hand. Songs and videos had made etceteras so important that a lot of girls sold themselves to get them.

  Sincerity had posted a sixth grade picture of herself on her profile to keep the wolves at bay. It had worked for the most part, but that was how Adam liked them. The rabbit teeth and pigtails turned him the fuck on.

  When he contacted her, she replied that she was twelve and his response to that was a dick pic. A fresh erection from the goofy picture she posted. He would have gotten blocked had Killa not been present. Instead, he was going to be killed.

  “That’s going to cost you,” Killa warned in reply. “I’m her dad.”

  “How much? I’ll pay,” he shot back instantly. His own father was a
sick freak too so he didn’t bat an eye.

  “Tell him those new sneakers everybody is wearing,” Sincerity suggested. Being a mother made her take interest in his murder.

  Adam agreed to buy the child for the price of the sneakers.

  “I wanna watch,” Sincerity pouted while watching Killa get dressed to kill.

  “As soon as I get back,” he replied with a wicked grin. He misunderstood thinking she meant watch when he went down on her. Honest mistake since he always wanted to watch when she did him.

  “No, I wanna watch you kill him. I wanna see it!”

  “Just see?” Killa prodded to see if she wanted more. She did.

  “No, I want to do it. I want to kill him. What if that wasn’t an old picture of me? He sent that picture of his dick to who he though was a kid,” she spat murderously. It’s in everyone; it just has to be brought out.

  “Get dressed. I’ll drop the kids at Grandma’s,” he replied. He saw the look in her eyes and would not deny her. “How sweet, my baby wants to purge.”

  ****

  “You need gas baby,” Sincerity advised along with the low gas light. Just then, the alert began to beep cosigning her.

  “Huh?” Killa asked. He sounded irritated at being snatched away from his thoughts. She pointed at the gas light rather than disturb him further. “Oh…yeah.”

  Killa pulled into the first gas station he saw and the first thing he saw was four young black guys. The thugs looked out of place in the upper middle class neighborhood. It immediately pissed him off because kids like that gave all black people a black eye.

  Jeans slung low off their asses, unlaced sneakers, and boots. One had a gun on his t-shirt; two had weed plants, while the last one’s shirt proudly proclaimed ‘Fuck the World.’

  He was pretty sure that wasn’t the dream Martin Luther King dreamt. The goons were probably waiting on some white people to victimize. Had Killa not had more pressing issues, he would have pressed the issue.

  “Need anything bae?” Sincerity asked as he began to pump the gas.