Justice Black: The Game Never Ends Read online

  Justice Black

  Copyright © 2015 Gartia L. Bansah

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1500757535

  ISBN 13: 9781500757533

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014916728

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, South Carolina

  Justice Black

  The Game Never Ends

  Gartia L Bansah

  2015

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  DEDICATION AND THANKS

  Rodney’s Place, 1:55 a.m.

  Rodney’s Place was one of the most popular restaurants in BrightTown. The pay wasn’t great, but you could always get a job there. Tonight was a surprise birthday party for the owner. Only those with deep pockets and strong political connections were invited. It was a drunken snob party with scantly dressed men and women who served as side entertainment for those who had “pre-ordered.” The few workers left couldn’t wait to leave. Their work schedules were last-minute arrangements. Guess what? No one was happy about it.

  Peter Harrison was especially mad; his ex-wife, Kimmie, had screwed him again. She had dumped his kids there without warning and hauled ass. The problem, Peter wasn’t supposed to have his kids.

  “Desirae,” he shouted, “hurry with those dishes. I want to get my kids out of this hellhole. They should should be home sleeping.” Peter then spoke to anyone who’d listen. “I bet my paycheck Kimmie and that lousy sister of hers are at the casino again. If I called the cops, that sister’s cop boyfriend would swear I took my kids, and the damn judge would believe him again. I shoulda listened to my mother when she said, ‘Son,’ be careful who you breed with.’

  “You’re damn straight they’re gambling,” John Paul, the short-order cook agreed. “And how about us working this shift? I’m mad with the Pop. What a shithead. That old man strutted in here, looking down his nose at us like he was a god. No one cared that we had plans.” John Paul could not complain; two more payments and he would own his exercise equipment and could open his gym. It was his dream. Still, he hated the restaurant rule against having cell phones during work hours. “With all these screwed-up rules here and jobs being hard to find, we’re stuck,” he added.

  Gabe understood their anger. He’d been on the job only a week and definitely couldn’t complain. His wife had to pull a last-minute double at the feed plant, and her sister who normally babysat had the flu. He had no choice but to bring his seven-year-old daughter with him.

  “Daddy, I need to use the bathroom,” his daughter said for the third time. Gabe squinted an eye at her. This was her excuse to not sleep.

  “All right, baby. Hurry back, and I still want those eyes shut when you get back,” he reminded her as he watched her safely enter the bathroom, then turned back to scrubbing the stove.

  “I’m dragged through court behind Kimmie’s lies that I abused her and my kids. The truth is she’s the abuser,” Peter continued. “Now I can’t be alone with my kids until a nut doctor says I’m not crazy as hell.”

  “You know, guys,” Desirae said as she heaved the last heavy tray onto the counter, “when I get my day-care license, you two get a big discount.” Desirae was more than empathetic with Peter. She’d met Kimmie, and the woman was nothing to write home about. If Peter didn’t keep his kids, Desirae knew Kimmie would dump them with her irresponsible brother’s girlfriend.

  This time Peter spoke to John Paul. “This is crazy. If I tried to say anything in court, my useless lawyer said to let him do the talking. I did. Now I have a social worker and a shrink crawling up my ass.” Peter cursed the card tacked on the kitchen wall, a bitter reminder of his appointment with Dr. A. G. Joseph, psychologist. “Damn shrink is probably a prick too. I should have fired the prick lawyer.”

  “See, that’s why I don’t do lawyers,” John Paul interjected. “The last time one told me to let her do the talking, I got jail time for taking my stuff back from the guy who robbed me. The cops sure didn’t break their backs looking for it.”

  “Peter,” Desirae yelled, “let’s just hurry.” She’d taken a shoplifting charge for her identical twin sister and would be off probation in two months and needed to stay on this job. Before she loaded the last tray of dishes into the washer, she stopped and took a moment to look under the long counter and smiled at Peter’s children and Rodney’s girlfriend’s five-year-old son, Jamie, as they quietly played underneath. She had no choice but to keep Jamie when Rodney’s friend again unexpectantly brought him to the restaurant for her to babysit. Desirae hated this, but she was hopeful if she babysat Jamie again, the owner would give her the day shift. She really wanted to spend more time with her family.

  Outside, the banging sounds of heavy pots and people chattering resonated as a lean man stood in a dark corner and listened. “Damn,” he swore. “No one mentioned there’d be workers here.” It didn’t matter; nothing was left in his heart to care about anyone. He wanted a smoke but wouldn’t take the chance of someone seeing the fire from the cigarette. His left leg hurt. Today it made him limp, and his lithe frame was tired from the long drive from Utah. Flying first class was his style, but he couldn’t afford the ticket—at least not now. It was just as well. Airline ticket purchases were easily traced. He had a
few pain pills left, but they wouldn’t last very long.

  He dumped a barrel of bricks and tools and blocked the kitchen door. There was an ugly crooked smile on his mouth left from the jagged scar. “The remodeling of the restaurant made it easy to check out this place. I’d come here twice, first as an electrician and a week later wearing a little makeup as the building inspector. No one asked for ID.”

  A deep scowl almost closed his good eye, the right one. As a habit, he adjusted the patch and the cap as if it would block the haunting memory of how he lost the eye. He limped away with a smile and placed the Out of Business sign in front. Satisfied, he grinned and saluted the black cat that scampered over the alley wall. “Yes, sir, my luck is changing.”

  A strongly built taller man walked up and whispered, “Jacobson, we’ll meet later as planned. You can go now.”

  “Good. Don’t forget to bring my money. No games, you hear me?”

  “Don’t worry,” he assured him as he watched Jacobsen limp away. He whispered, “Freaking loser,” and then stood and listened to the chatter inside before he lit his cigarette. “More losers.”

  “Hey, you guys, what’s burning?” Peter’s heart raced to his throat seeing the smoke creep underneath the kitchen door.

  “Jesus!” Desirae cried. The smoke soon filled the room with the acrid smell of burning rubber. Then there was the eerie quiet. “Why isn’t the fire alarm working?”

  John Paul’s heart pounded in his ears as he rushed to the exit door. “It won’t open. Move the kids.”

  Gabe rushed to the bathroom for his daughter.

  “What’s wrong, Daddy?” she asked seeing the frightened look on her dad’s face.

  “Nothing, baby.” Gabe coughed and covered her face. He picked up his daughter and prayed for a miracle as she cried. “Don’t cry, baby. Everything’s okay,” he whispered.

  Jamie screamed when he heard Gabe’s daughter crying, and he pulled away from Desirae and ran toward the back of the restaurant.

  “Jamie, come back!” she yelled.

  Peter rushed to the two extinguishers that hung on the kitchen wall, and a sense of dread spread across his face when he saw the rings on both extinguishers were broken. He pressed the handles with a prayer, but neither valve worked. There was a big ache in his heart. The sprinklers still had yet to come on.

  He yelled, “The sprinklers aren’t working!” Peter then looked fearfully at his children, unwilling to accept what was happening.

  “I’ll check the kitchen phone!” Desirae shouted. When she picked it up, in disblief she gasped. “The line is dead. Everybody get to Rodney’s office!” Her heart was in her throat as she ran in search for Jamie.

  “Desirae, just go! I’ll find Jamie,” John Paul said.

  Outside the tall man saluted the white stone wall that held the message he’d sprayed in black: 1 Samuel 28:7–25. Seek the witches of Endor. We are many.

  Satisfied, he jumped into the blue Volkswagen, looked at the blazing fire in his rearview mirror, and saluted the flames.

  chapter

  ONE

  Justice silently cursed the clock; it was two in the morning. Not only did the sirens wake him, but the dream was back, with haunting memories of the squalor the children had lived in and the dullness in their eyes. If he tried hard enough, he could smell the nauseating stench of that nearby sulfur plant that permeated the area. He remembered everything. It was dark, and at twenty-two, it was his first raid. Everyone wore masks and prepared for the unexpected. The white row houses, nestled in the back roads of a California farm, had been used for illegal gun sales and manufacturing methamphetamines. The narrow, muddy, and curved dirt road surrounded by dense olive trees created blind spots, making the team an easy target. They finally made it inside the compound and wasted no time securing the area. Four women had stood among a room of mostly young girls and stared the team down with cold expressions. No one was fool enough to take their eyes off the women. They were as dangerous as the men.

  A young man in his midtwenties, suspected to be the leader, cursed, spat, and struggled as he was handcuffed. Two frail young teen boys stood out among the rest of the children. The smaller one had hair the color of a raven; the other one’s eyes were swollen, full of fright, and very gray. He stood motionless but pleaded, “Uncle Naid, don’t go.” Then he’d asked, “Uncle Naid, are you coming back?”

  The young uncle, who never looked at the boy, shouted, “Boy, don’t be a punk. You hear me?”

  Hell nearly broke loose. The women started fighting and ordered the children to run. If the raid hadn’t been well organized, it would have been a disaster. He’d carried the smaller boy and led the gray-eyed boy out of the house, but the gray-eyed boy broke free, and the raven-haired boy fell to the ground, and both ran into the olive grove. The kids were fast.

  Justice finally caught both and asked, “Are you good now? I know you’re good.” He repeated those words until the boys gave up struggling. The dullnes in those boys’ eyes still haunted him.

  Every child’s eyes should sparkle. Justice slowly rose from his bed. His ulcer burned, and his throat tightened. Something felt wrong, and one thing Justice was sure of, his ulcer never steered him wrong. Then his phone rang.

  chapter

  TWO

  The message on the wall was for him. Justice Tobiah Black knew that. It was a message from Legion. When his phone rang at ten minutes past two this morning, it wasn’t good. Unless it’s a baby being born, good news doesn’t come at that time of morning. Three years ago in the neighboring town, in retaliation against the founders of St. Sullivan Hospital, his former secretary, Margie Rollins, and her brother, CEO of St. Sullivan, were responsible for the kidnappings and deaths of only black children from the hospital. Before Margie and her brother were killed, both had yelled, “We are many.” Margie had a journal filled with cryptic messages about Legion. She had drawn a happy face next to Legion’s name with an arrow pointing to the word “many.” There were three equal-signs circled, with the words “territories,” “nonessential,” and “small towns” written below. Each circle had seven stick figures strategically placed on top. Legion planned on expanding. Now here he stood in BrightTown, a small town on the Texas and Louisiana border. Perfect for a quiet takeover.

  At first Justice wasn’t sure he even wanted the headache of being the head of Southern Region Defense. Although his best friend and agent, Ezra Rayford Rule, had made the choice to have a personal life, Justice had little room for one. But he knew he could do this job. His boss, Pentium “Pen” Solomon, was also very persuasive and determined that the position went to him. So here he was in spite of everything. Each day he put his feet in his shoes and walked a determined, daunting path, again trying to keep this region free from individuals’ civil rights being violated, child trafficking, and the gradual surge of domestic terroism. He had his passion too, kidnapped children, and had set up an international agency to monitor the trafficking. In this region, only African American and biracial children were targeted.

  The challenges Justice faced in the job were plenty, including battling politicians who constantly fought against him and his team. He was not surprised some did not want him in the position. He was not their idea of a leader. This was one reason he was to face a House subcommittee hearing about his handling of domestic bioterroism, and he was certain because human lives were lost in the restaurant fire, that would also be brought up in the hearing. He couldn’t get out of his mind the charred bodies of John Paul holding Jamie huddled in a corner.

  Justice sighed. The enemy sends its best attackers using his most powerful weapon: fear. He hadn’t blindly gone into this position. This region was filled with deep southern secrecy and corruption. He accepted the reality that some of his political foes, before giving him the chance to fix the domestic terroism facing the southern region, were willing to destroy whatever or whoever stood in their wa
y of holding on to their political power. But he’d learned long ago to compartmentalize a lot of things and people in his life that otherwise would distract him from his job. Oftentimes Justice spent more time in the field with his agents ferreting out dangerous secrets that aimed at destruction. Sitting in his office disconnected him from people. Outside the office, he was able to learn more information about staff who proved to be corrupt. So far, he’d fired four staff and relocated six.

  “The game never ends,” he whispered as he surveyed the blackened perimeter of the restaurant. He rarely saw the inside of his place. The job oftentimes took him to other countries, following leads, working long odd hours under his code name, Melchizedek. With limitless resources and authority, he and his team did whatever it took to get the job done. There was no time to stop and worry about a conscience.

  Detective Dave Lane stood with Justice, scanning the area for anything that didn’t fit. He’d worked with Justice before, and although he had his dislikes about his own job, he wouldn’t change shoes with Justice.

  “Damn, the person responsible for this needs me to handle them, but my wife reminds me we’re civilized now,” Lane said. “You know that model citizen could be standing around here getting his or her jollies.”

  Lane’s swearing brought Justice back to the problem as he watched the EMTs load the children into the ambulance while his team kept the curious onlookers and the media away.

  “Could be,” Justice agreed. “Anybody look stupid to you?”

  “You’re serious, Dr. Black?” Lane remembered Justice growing up in the neighboring town of WhiteFlower. Although the town was segregated then, the entire town had been proud of Justice’s exceptional athletic and scholarly abilities. If Justice Tobiah Black was involved in anything, it came out on top. The news reporters called him Midas. He’d graduated at the top of his class and for four years straight won the local high school golf and swimming regional championships. He put WhiteFlower on the map. No one was too surprised with his success. Justice’s achievements, for a while, closed the racial barrier, but Lane learned that although he had a quiet nature, Justice Black had an enigmatic dark side. He eyed the tall man standing next to Justice, Caldwell Adams, who was cut from the same cloth as that boss of his, only he was an outsider; he came from New York. Both spoke few words, but they didn’t need many. Their hard looks said everything.