American Gunner

Book 1: Gunner

by Eddy Clark, D. Andrea Whitfield

Genres: African American; African American Urban; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

Imaginatively rendered and a gripping debut, a young man’s dance with the criminal underworld lands him in international hot water and left vying for his life in this crime thriller mash-up of American Gangster and The Bourne Identity.

Raphael Waters grew up accustomed to being in a constant state of survival. When he becomes the muscle for known street figure, Rah, he believes his life has taken a turn for the better. That is until a string of unfortunate circumstances leave Rah missing and Raphael grasping for answers in the streets of the concrete jungle—once again. A chance encounter with the intriguing Alex Gatts promises to be the life-changing turnaround he needs.  
  
Alex Gatts is the perfect mixture of beauty and brawn. She rules the nightlife of South Bend with every click of her sky-high stilettos. When she hires Raphael as her bodyguard, an unexpected friendship develops, sparking a lucrative business proposition that could give Alex the edge she desires.  
  
Raphael lets his guard down and breaks his cardinal rule: Never trust a woman. Together they embark on a series of real estate deals that solidifies their standing amongst the country’s elite and most powerful syndicate. When an international business deal of a lifetime goes awry, Raphael is left holding the bag in enemy territory.   
 
“This story hooked me from the very first page . . . all the twists and turns you need in a suspense story, including a romance you never expected to happen! I highly recommend it for fans of crime thrillers. You won’t be disappointed.” —Shakir Rashaan, bestselling author of Neverwraith

Publisher: Black Odyssey Media

Print pages: 320

Sample

Prologue

As Tatiana danced in front of Raphael, his mind took a hiatus. He nodded, focusing on the beauty in front of him as the purple haze clouded the stuffy room and the music serenaded them into a euphoric stasis. Watching her twist and grind her body, he realized it’d been a minute since he indulged in her. Any woman, actually. Getting a woman wasn’t the issue. They would come organically or transactionally. Either way, whether it was Tatiana or another beauty, he was covered. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to indulge in either, but at this point in his life, money was the motive. He’d been in bed with the struggle too long not to concentrate on stacking his paper. Yet, right now, he was content with his downtime, and he could afford the momentary break to satisfy his urges.

She tiptoed over to him, her seductive gait keeping his attention like a cat following a piece of yarn. The moment she eased her body into his lap, he felt the vibration of his cellphone. Ignoring it, he slid his hand around her backside while licking his lips. Tatiana smiled at him, a knowing sneer curling across her lips as she popped her ass back, causing a guttural moan to escape his lips. When the phone vibrated again, Raphael groaned, tossing his head back and putting up his finger.

“We’re in the middle of something, Raphael,” she whined.

“One sec,” he said with authority. When he lifted his phone out of his pocket, he focused on the name. Sliding the bar to answer, he gently tapped her on the ass, urging her to get up. “Talk to me.”

“Where are you?”

“Just left the Eastside cookout,” Raphael said, a half-truth. “What’s good?”

“Haven’t I told you about hanging out down there?”

Laughing, Raphael spat, “Really? You must have forgotten who I am. You know I’m goody, for real.”

“Yeah, okay. You’re goody. It’s your funeral, though, if shit gets out of hand.”

“I ain’t never been scared of the dirt, homie. That’s why you hired me, remember?”

“Indeed.”

“Is this a social call or you need me? I thought you were spending time with the fam?”

“I was, but I have some quick business at the club that I need to handle tonight. I need you to roll through. Can you be here in thirty?”

Raphael gritted his teeth. “A’ight. I’m there.” As soon as he hung up the phone, Tatiana sucked her teeth causing Raphael to roll his eyes up at her with a scowl on his face. “What’s your problem?”

“So, I guess you gotta go run and be Alex’s do-boy, again?” she asked, more as a statement, with an attitude. “Every time that motherfucker comes calling, you run like a pussy.”

“I’m Alex’s personal security. It’s a job. A well-paying job. I know it’s a concept that you may not have heard—”

Slap! Her hand landed across his face. “Don’t treat me like that. I’ve been down for you for years, no reward. So, miss me with your bullshit, Raph.”

He bit his lip to keep from snatching her up. Men had been handled for far less by him, and she was trying his patience. “So then why don’t you go and make a permanent situation with one of these fake “entertainers” around the Bend?”

She gawked at him, and with a smirk, he continued. “What? You think I don’t know? This is South Bend, baby. Ain’t no darkness here, everything is brought to light. I see you, baby.”

She stood there fuming. “I can’t believe you. All this time, I’ve been holding on to you—”

He pointed a finger at her as he walked toward the door. “And that’s your problem. I didn’t ask to be held.”

She shook her head. “Niggas. I swear. Forget you, Raph. Seriously, this time. Do not come checking for me.”

Chucking up deuces in her direction, he chuckled to himself as he exited. He knew he could get back to Tatiana anytime he wanted. To her, he was unforgettable, and that was her biggest downfall because she should forget about him. But she wouldn’t.



Cruising the streets of South Bend, Alex and Raphael bopped their heads to the music beating out of Alex’s all-black Cadillac Escalade. As Raphael drove, he watched the streets carefully while scanning traffic. His eyes remained on high alert at every corner. South Bend was small, but the nighttime brought out the streets’ finest, and they always lurked, ready to put in work to earn the top spot. The only way to do that was to take down the top man. Alex was the man. Raphael’s role was to protect Alex. It’s one he’d earned, and he hadn’t failed to deliver yet. He didn’t have any intention of failing.

“So, you gone tell me about this business you had that was urgent?” Raphael questioned, glancing over at Alex.

“My bad. You had something better to do with your time?” Alex raised an eyebrow, the question drenched with sarcasm. “Am I holding you back from something?”

Raphael rolled his eyes and with a slight sigh replied, “Nah, fam. First, you tell me I can have the night off, and the next thing I know you’re calling me to come scoop you to handle some business. Since you didn’t tell me why the switch up, I was just wondering why you got me on freeze? We’ve always been able to talk, but tonight you got me on mute.”

Alex gazed out of the side window, lost, for a moment, in internal thoughts. “Because it is nothing major, and I’m quiet because I’m contemplating some things. As long as you have the intel you need, you’re good. Everything doesn’t need to be spoken.”

With a dismissive smirk, Raphael nodded, reaching to turn down the volume of the music. “Cool.”

Alex reached a hand out to stop him. “Nah, it’s cool. Leave it.”

Raphael sat back and continued the drive. As he made the turn on Lincoln Way to head up to Club Paradise, he noticed the ATF and FBI cars ahead. He could spot them from a mile away. At first, he assumed something had popped off on the block, but as they got closer, he could see they had Club Paradise surrounded. The place was swarming with officers and agents.

“Keep driving,” Alex ordered, out of the blue, taking notice of the scene at the club as well.

Without missing a beat, Raphael continued down the road. “You wanna fill me in on what the fuck’s going on now, Alex?” Raphael asked, gripping the steering wheel.

“Just keep driving.”

“Nah, unfreeze me real quick on this.” Raphael gritted his teeth. “You know my ass is riding dirty as fuck. Now ain’t the time to be withholding information.”

“Look, just take me back to my house. I need to get some things together—”

“Alex, what the hell?” Raphael shook his head. He knew there was something foul in the atmosphere. He felt it in his bones. As soon as he turned the corner heading back to Granger, he noticed an ATF car whip around. “We’ve been spotted.”

“Don’t stop.”

With a harsh stare, Raphael glared at Alex. “Nah, hell no. I’m not catching an evading charge, especially when I don’t know what the hell this is about!”

“If they haven’t thrown on the lights, don’t stop!” Alex yelled. “You can make it back to Granger.”

“Alex, I swear to God if you don’t start talking—”

“It’s some BS, Raphael. My lawyer told me that the ATF has been watching me over some trumped-up paperwork about the club.”

“And you’re just now wanting to tell me some shit like that?” Raphael barked as he kept his pace. “We’re supposed to have each other’s backs out here.”

Just as he was about to make a turn into traffic, the Charger’s lights flashed on. Thinking over the fact that they were both riding with weapons in the vehicle, Raphael pressed the accelerator, pushing the SUV through the city at a high rate of speed. Swerving through traffic, more Chargers came into view as they approached them through side streets and alleyways. Still, Raphael kept pushing, heading back to IN-23. Gripping the steering wheel as tight as he could without tearing it off the column, Raphael couldn’t believe what was happening. All of his life, he’d avoided the cage only to be caught up in some bullshit that he wasn’t sure had anything to do with him.

Noticing the cops ahead, Raphael threw the gear in reverse quickly and slammed on the brakes. Backing into reverse, he changed directions and headed straight, aiming his way back for the shorter way through I-80E/I-90E.

“We still have two behind us!” Alex yelled. “Shake them!”

“Let me drive!” Raphael hollered as he bent the corners with the SUV.

When they got to the light, more ATF Chargers and heavily armored vehicles were ahead while the two Chargers still tailed behind them. There was no other way around it; they had to stop. They were already facing evasion charges. Unless he planned on using the Escalade to take down the ATF vehicles in front of them, the inevitable was bound to happen.

“Shit!” Alex cursed, coming to the same realization as Raphael.

Raphael brought the vehicle to a creep as police surrounded them with weapons drawn. Bringing the black-tinted SUV to a complete stop, Raphael sat there, breathing deeply as Alex sat, not moving a muscle.

“Alex, tell me something.” Raphael’s tone came off hotter than the summer heat.

“Just chill out and let me think.”

Raphael spun his body halfway in his seat. “Think? Last. Time. What is this about?”

Before Alex could answer, an ATF agent spoke. “This is Agent Cantelli with the Indiana ATF. We have your vehicle surrounded. Raphael Waters and Alex Gatts, we know you’re in the vehicle,” he spoke into the megaphone, and slowly walked out from around the barricade of officers. “We want you both to slowly exit the vehicle, placing your hands above your head. Do it now!”

Raphael and Alex gazed at each other, and with a look of defeat, Alex nodded. Both of them simultaneously opened their car door and slowly exited the SUV, holding their hands above their heads. The federal agents swarmed them immediately, throwing them face forward against the SUV.

“What’s this about?” Raphael asked as the officers began handcuffing them.

“You falsified paperwork on Club Paradise, Raphael. You applied for a liquor license on Alex’s behalf, knowing Alex can’t operate a club with alcohol with a felony record,” Agent Cantelli stated.

Raphael’s eyes widened in shock over the accusations. “The fuck you talking about? I didn’t do that.”

FBI Agent Fremont looked up and across from where he was handcuffing Alex and smirked. “Oh, yeah? Well, it looks like your boss Alex has some explaining to do about that and these illegal firearm trafficking, solicitation, and embezzlement charges then.”

“Now, you have the right to remain silent . . . ” Special Agent Cantelli began Mirandizing Raphael while FBI Agent Fremont did the same to Alex.

The entire time, Raphael glared at Alex with pure anger coursing through his veins. Alex simply stared back at him with a stoic look. No apologies. No explanations. No remorse.

Raphael flashed back to all the times he’d had Alex’s back. He’d been the friend, the confidant, the security, the bodyguard, and the business associate—or so he thought. It was at that moment he realized it was a lie. He was playing for the team, and Alex was playing for self. As they began being hauled away to be put in separate vehicles, he wondered how he let himself get caught up with the likes of Alexandria Gatts. But what else did he expect? She was a criminal—and a woman. If Eve played Adam, Delilah played Samson, and his mama played his daddy, and they were all romantically linked, then what the fuck did he expect Alex to do to him? There was no love between them, only loyalty. Except now, with silver bracelets slapped around his wrists and the cop car door slamming in his face, Raphael was learning that the only person doling out loyalty was him.

Chapter 1

Eight Years Earlier . . .

The putrid stench of vomit and urine filled the air, waking Raphael out of his sleep. With frustration etched on his face, he sat up for a moment and took a deep breath, instantly regretting it. Slinging back the thin bed sheet that he’d had for the past five years, he planted his feet on the floor, swiped his hands over his head, stood and stretched, hearing his bones popping in rapid-fire succession.

Reaching toward the old, rickety wooden chair, he snatched his gray cotton sweatpants off the chair and slid them over his boxer briefs. Sticking his feet into his Adidas slides, he opened his bedroom door and walked into the hallway.

To his dismay, he saw his father on the floor with his back against the wall, the tourniquet was still partially wrapped around his arm. Beside him was the remnants of alcohol and whatever he’d last eaten, mixed with urine from the golden shower that had christened the floor. A stench rose from the mixture like heat on hot garbage.

Fanning his nose to try to alleviate some of the horrid odor, he eased his way down the hallway toward his father. When he reached him, he knelt and gently pushed his shoulders. The slight stirring elicited a sigh of relief from Raphael; he was still alive. Another gentle nudge provoked a groan as drool slid down the side of his mouth. Shaking his head, Raphael took great care in stepping over his father and walked to the kitchen counter, grabbed the towel, and walked back to where his dad was and wiped his mouth. Tossing the towel back toward the sink, he positioned himself in front of his dad, careful not to step in any of the fluids surrounding him.

“Let’s get up, old man.” He bent down to help him as he groaned and shifted. “C’mon. Up. Up.”

“Just leave me,” his dad whispered, still in a high and drunken stupor.

“Nope. C’mon, old man. You know the drill. Let’s go.” Raphael lifted him as his thin, frail frame slowly cooperated and his father helped push himself off the floor.

“I’m so sorry, son,” his dad whimpered as Raphael led him to the bathroom.

“I know, old man.”

“Imma kick this shit, one day, ya know.”

“I know, old man.”

“I love you, son.”

“I know, old man.”

Raphael listened to his father’s empty promises for the umpteenth time as he helped him undress and step into the shower.

Raphael turned the cold water on first to revive his dad and reduce the effects of the high. As usual, his dad cursed him for breathing the minute the water hit him. Raphael did nothing more than offer the usual nod and took the abuse. Then he turned on the warm water and listened to his dad sing in an off-key tone, I Need Thee Every Hour. It made him smile, but it also brought sadness for the same reason. He smiled because his dad used to be a damn good singer, and the sadness was because his dad used to be a damn good singer. The booze and the drugs not only ate away at his physical body, but the mental and internal damage from all the abuse marred his talent forever.

Once he helped his dad get out and get dressed, he laid him on the bed and went into the kitchen to start his normal cleanup process. He grabbed the last roll of paper towels and wiped the largest puddles of vomit and urine off the floor before filling a bucket of water and detergent and grabbing the mop. Thirty minutes later, he dumped the water outside and rinsed the bucket out, then came back inside the house.

Back inside, he poured water into a glass to take to his father before he got dressed for the day. Standing in the doorway of his dad’s bedroom, he couldn’t help but get emotional. He choked up, looking at the shell of a man that his father had become. Once upon a time, he was an intelligent and virile man, a pillar of strength. It hurt because he remembered the old him, but he knew the “new” him so well that he, at times, forgot that his dad had been someone other than a neighborhood junkie. It was amazing how a small substance could bring down Goliaths. Yet, every day, in this community and in the hoods around the world, men, women, and children alike were succumbing to the effects of street drugs.

After seeing what it could do to others, it was bewildering to him how people could continue to get caught up. However, instant and self-gratification would always be the downfall of humans. The feeling and rush of feeling good now, dulling your problems quickly and escaping reality momentarily, were more convincing than the fear of any long-term effect. If people automatically dropped fifty pounds, lost teeth, and looked like the walking dead before they could get hooked, then perhaps they would think twice, but vices didn’t work that way. Vices made you feel on top of the world, then turned around and dumped the world on top of you. The worst type of traitor. A Benedict Arnold.

A person dedicated their life to the feel of drugs, and it turned around and made a mockery of them for the whole world to see, without so much as a thank you. And every day people flocked to them, attracted to the pretty, shining, glitz, and glamour feeling, without realizing the demons lurked inside, eating them from the inside out. Once they did realize it, it was too late. It was like an abusive relationship; you know you should leave, but you continue to stay, feeling like you have no choice, because of the misconception that some love, even if it’s bad love, is better than no love at all.

Raphael blinked his eyes to rid himself of the tears, daring not to let them fall for fear of succumbing to his emotions. Flicking away the one droplet that strained to fall, he compelled his heart to freeze and stop that warm tenderness threatening to invade his chest. With everything that he’d endured in his fifteen years of life, he’d become emotionally detached from most everything in this world. He could give two shits about sick dogs on those pitiful ASPCA commercials, people dying from terroristic bombings happening all over the world, or about donating a quarter a damn day to hungry kids overseas. Hell, he barely cared about himself. The only person that moved him was Brian Raphael Waters . . . his old man.

“Here you go, old man, drink,” Raphael commanded softly as he woke his sleeping father.

His father sat up in the bed, took the glass out of his hands, and took a few gulps. After taking a deep breath, he handed the glass back to Raphael. “Thanks, son.” His words came out weighted with exasperation.

“No problem, old man.” He patted his shoulder before turning to walk away.

His father grabbed his arm, stopping him. “You make sure you go to school today,” he fussed. “I mean it. Don’t be bullshitting around on them streets. Let me find out you wasn’t in school, and I swear—”

He interrupted his tirade. “I’m going, old man. Relax!”

Calming his voice, his father pointed at him. “Do better than me.” He swallowed his emotions. “A Black man with no education—”

“Ain’t nothing but a thug in training,” Raphael finished. “I know, old man. I know. You tell me all the time.”

“I should’ve told myself,” he said, obviously feeling downtrodden with the self-assessment.

“Don’t do that. You had dreams—”

“That didn’t amount for shit!” he hollered. “Talent and no education are the same things. Be smart, Raph. That’s all I’m telling you. This world will strip you of everything you have, but it can’t take away your education. That’s the golden ticket. Be smart.”

Raphael nodded, taking in what his father said, but still feeling a type of way. “Yeah, well, no offense, but it ain’t the lack of education that got you like this, and it wasn’t the world either.”

Without giving his father a chance to respond, he walked away to get ready for the day. He was about to do what he did best: hit the streets. His father was so fucked up he didn’t realize today was Saturday. For Raphael, it may as well have been Saturday every day. He didn’t have the heart to tell his dad that he’d dropped out months ago.



As Raphael stood on the corner away from the other block boys and hood figures, he pulled his fitted cap lower on his head. He liked to operate with discretion and in isolation—what he called “solo dolo”. He kept his appearance simple, a T-shirt, jeans, and sneaks, with a fitted cap. He wasn’t into the flashy look and never indulged in iced-out jewelry. He was there to make money, not get money taken from him. Anybody was a target in the streets, but the more attention they brought to themselves, the more attention they received. At fifteen, he was already six-foot-one, and that drew enough attention.

He leaned his head back against the brick wall of the corner store that he was posted up at, trying to catch a break from the beaming sunshine by shielding his face using the shadows cast by the storefront. He was out there baking in the 92-degree heat, but he’d withstand it. It was a matter of necessity. His dad didn’t have a job, and the two-bedroom, two-bath shotgun house that they had would be gone if he didn’t pay the rent. He had to keep the utilities going and food in the refrigerator, so he tolerated the discomfort.

He never wanted to get in too deep with the drug game, so the little money he made all went into the house. Sure, he could’ve made more, but he didn’t; getting popped by the police with a charge that could give him more years than he’d probably been granted to be alive was not a desirable outcome. He liked simple. In and out. Live to fight another day.

In his mind, school was cool for the basics, but it was the realities that came with the street struggle that prepared him for life. Sure, he read books; he would consume pages on end whenever he could. He felt like learning how to survive the streets and picking up knowledge through the readings of people like Dick Gregory and Eldridge Cleaver helped him prepare for the real world—even more than any classroom ever could.

One of his regular customers rolled through, giving a nod as they stopped in front of him. He walked up, checking to his left and right, and with the hand-to-hand gesture, his business was done. They pretended to chop it up for a few moments and then the customer pulled away. When he walked back to his post, some boys from his old high school who had been laughing and joking with each other looked like they were making their way toward him. His chest grew tight as he shook his head and hoped they went about their way.

“Ay, yo, Raphael!” Marquette, one of the dudes, called out. Raphael ignored him and leaned back against the brick corner store. They looked at each other when he didn’t respond.

Marquette hit one of the other guys in the chest playfully then pointed at Raphael. “Yo, this lil’ nigga here,” he joked as they approached him. “Yo! I know you heard me, man,” he taunted as they stood in front of him.

Raphael shrugged, but the irritation he felt peppered his voice. “What’s up, man?”

Marquette laughed. “What’s up is them busted-up ass sneaks you been rocking for like a whole damn year. Damn! Hustlin’ backward if you can’t get no new sneaks!”

The crew that came with Marquette joined in the laughter as Raphael huffed. He lifted from the wall, standing to face Marquette, doing his best to control his anger.

“What?” Marquette bowed up at him. “You can’t take no joke?”

Raphael rubbed his chin, his open palms facing toward him. “Man, I’m just on the block. I’m not looking for no static.”

“But you see, that’s the problem. You on my block, though,” Marquette said, his arrogance on public display as he pointed to himself and flashed an expensive watch.

“It’s Rah’s block. We just working it,” Raphael threw out, unfazed by the show of bravado. “The last I checked, you didn’t have the juice to hold on to the block, even if it was yours.”

When the guys with Marquette let out a collective murmur at Raphael’s words, it angered him. His head was big. He’d always thought he was bigger and badder than everyone else, always feeling the need to one-up the next guy. Envy and jealousy gave people distorted opinions about themselves, but prideful, envious, and jealous people acted on those opinions and made fast enemies.

Feeling slighted, Marquette walked up on Raphael. Marquette was three years older, a senior in high school, and had the luxury of having a mother who took care of him. Raphael was in the streets because he had to be. Marquette wanted to be that dude in the streets, not realizing that most people in the streets were there out of necessity, not out of some false sense of glorification.

He put his finger in Raphael’s. . .