Frostbite

by Eric Pete

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

The oh-so-cold Prince of Lies from Eric’s critically acclaimed Crushed Ice returns! He lurks in the silence, ready to strike without warning, without mercy. Truth is a man for hire, a man of many faces, many names. A killer? Only if someone tries to kill him first. But even a cold-as-ice operator like Truth has a heart. He’s known love and loss, and now his past mistakes are coming back to haunt him.

When the sensuous schemer Sophia, on the run from a Saudi prince’s harem, begs for Truth’s help, he has to respond—she’s the sister of his former lover, Colette, a woman whose life he ruined. And now he, Sophia, and Colette are caught in the middle of an all-out war between an ambitious DA and a drug kingpin. Daring rescues, hair’s-breadth escapes, a trail of thrills stretching from NYC to New Orleans … can Truth handle it?

Release date: April 24, 2012

Publisher: Urban Renaissance

Print pages: 288

Sample

No one was home when my phone rang, vibrating just once in my pocket. They were all away at the movies. Saw when they pulled away in the Range Rover. Even the maid had the night off. Probably out celebrating their son’s status as the consensus number one recruit in the country. Kid played football for St. Thomas Aquinas over in Fort Lauderdale.

The dad was an investment banker. Successful even by the standards of the old economy—the bullshit, happy-happy fantasy we believed in before the bottom fell out. Maybe it was because of people like him that things were in such a shitty state. I mean ... I know I took a hit with my nest egg. My client could’ve been one of the people he’d fucked over.

But that wasn’t the reason I was hired.

It was simple petty jealousy.

Y’see ... my client had a son as well.

The kids were goddamn teammates even.

Except my client’s kid was the consensus number two recruit in the country.

But like the wise poet Nelly once said, “Two is not a winner and three nobody remembers.”

Competition on steroids.

A simple planting of evidence and the dad would be besieged by legal problems with ethics violations. Legal problems that would be a distraction for his entire family as well as his son.

Distraction enough to underperform in the upcoming all-star games in which they were scheduled to participate. And providing the case why numero dos should be numero uno. Wasn’t like both didn’t have a crazy share of scholarship offers anyway.

And if I didn’t take the job, my client was going to have someone else pull a Tonya Harding and break the kid’s leg. Or worse if they were amateurs. At least this way, no one was physically hurt.

Sick shit, but I just took the money.

“Hello?” I whispered as I swiftly removed the flash drive from the home office computer I’d hacked into. Had to be sure to reset the security system on my way out.

“Mr. Elvis? Elvis Spielberg?” the woman asked upon my answering, almost daring to laugh at the implausible name. Most people chuckled when they heard it. Didn’t care. Wasn’t my real name anyway. Just another guise that suited my needs like the set of clothes I wore.

But almost no one who knew me by that name would have this phone number.

Almost no one.

That’s what really piqued my curiosity.

“Yes. This is he. Who is this?” I asked, as I backtracked, making sure everything in the home was left undisturbed. The ID said UNKNOWN CALLER.

She didn’t identify herself. “I’m calling for Aswad,” she offered instead.

“Who?” I asked as I checked my watch. Was on a short schedule. “I don’t know any ‘Aswad.’”

“I’m sorry. That is what he calls her. She said to tell you her name is Sophia.” A mix of fondness and irritation gripped me. We weren’t on the best of terms when we parted ways. A difference of opinion about my vision or something. In short, she was greedy and reckless. Probably the reason I was getting this call. After originally being part of a plot against me, the woman was now part protégé/part problem with me never being too clear on which.

“And where is Sophia for you to be calling on her behalf?” I asked, trying to place the woman’s accent and gauge whether she was lying. The home’s security system central keypad was in front of me. Another minute and this job would be completed except for my money.

Money from my client who was also this guy’s neighbor.

No cup of sugar. Just a dose of scorpion venom served up.

Like I said, competition on steroids.

“Miami,” the woman on the phone replied. Some sick coincidence that I was already in south Florida? Or was Sophia up to her usual tricks?

“Bullshit,” I hissed. “She’s in London.” Remembered feeling the inside of her hand aboard the Eye while staring out over the Thames. We were playing tourists ... and lovers that day. Some welcome downtime while traipsing across Europe. And a fitting reward after getting my revenge on.

“No, sir. She is in America. I ... I just saw her. This morning when I was cleaning. She said she needs you to come quick.”

“Okay,” I mumbled as I wiped the codes showing my entrance and soon-to-be exit from the security system memory and took my leave. “And what else?”

“And that you’d reward me for delivering this message.”

Greed.

Now that was real.

Guess I was starting to believe this woman who’d called me.

“What’s your price?” I asked as I slipped into the darkness where I felt most comfortable.

After agreeing to get her family into the country from the Philippines, the cleaning lady who called for Sophia provided me with the details I needed. Then I had to offer up another ten thousand to get some rather unique information from her.

In the end, the conclusion was the same.

Sophia was in a world of shit.

So with short notice and scant recon, I’d come to Coral Gables preparing to do something foolish. Things like this usually took twice as long for which to prepare. Can’t say I didn’t like a challenge, but lives could be on the line if I miscalculated this. Including mine.

The sun beamed through the front window of the van as I checked my watch and adjusted my uniform.

“Your country appreciates your cooperation,” I recited all official like a final time before the three of us exited the repair van.

“Yeah, yeah. No problem. We got it. Anything to help bring down terrorists,” the burly Cubano in the driver’s seat grunted. It was as if his hardhat were two sizes too small for his head.

“Sir, I never said these gentlemen were terrorists. This is only an intelligence gathering mission,” I corrected him. “And we’re trusting you to keep quiet about anything you witness today. But if your bosses give you any grief, just call the number for the State Department on the card I gave you.” In case one of them had called the dummy number with the DC area code already, I’d left a prerecorded message that sounded authentic and mysterious.

“Probably goin’ plant some bugs like on Mission Impossible, ain’t ya? Shit, bosses should give us both promotions. Or maybe new black Dodges,” the tall, lanky Haitian kid who was the apprentice joked. I’d been listening to him brag for the last half hour about his test scores in electronics school. And about that same black Dodge Charger he wanted so badly.

Hated going this route. One thing I never did was pose as a Fed. To do so was to paint a shiny red bull’s-eye on one’s self. There was no time to do this all nice and tidy. I was just lucky my idea of an official badge and ID fooled my newly drafted coworkers. I preferred working through intermediaries like them, but was putting myself directly in harm’s way for Sophia.

Sophia.

A unique relationship in my unusual life I had with her.

But I had to focus on what was before me.

Not the past we may or may not have had.

“Let’s go. I’m sure they’re waiting on us,” I said as I slammed the door on the imprisoned memory of Jason North once again and slid open the door to the van to the light of day.

The three of us—the driver, Alonzo, the kid, Jeff, and I—grabbed our equipment and went on our call for a rush repair order on a satellite TV outage.

Today had to be the day.

That’s why I shut down their satellite feed last night while everyone slept.

Just off Old Dixie Highway and near the University of Miami, we buzzed the front door to the unassuming ceramic-roofed compound shrouded in palm trees. The plaque on the front of the secure facility and the colorful flag flying overhead identified the place as a consulate for one of those tiny Middle Eastern nations. The ones with more money than they have people. And where they import staff from third-world countries to service their needs, no matter how basic or base they might be.

After buzzing in and posing for the camera, the three of us were met by two suited men who looked like they were sumo wrestlers crammed into Hugo Boss tablecloths. They proceeded to inspect our identification badges with intense scrutiny then crosschecked the names against the approved list. After that, we were frisked and patted down. Lucky for me, they were only feeling for something that could be a weapon.

“What took you so long?” one of them asked, chastising us. “The prince is about to throw a fit.”

“Traffic,” Alonzo offered with a shrug. “Is the outage affecting all the TVs?”

“Of course. We almost left for the yacht to catch the Cup, but there are too many people to relocate on such short notice, so hurry up. Please.”

“It will be faster if the three of us split up,” Alonzo commented. “Someone needs to inspect the junction box and satellite’s dish arrays while the rest check the lines and individual receivers. How many TVs do you have in here anyway?”

Our greeter laughed. “More than you can imagine. Go ahead and split up,” he agreed while checking his watch. “But keep your badges displayed. I’ll go check on the prince and give him an update. Important friends of his are here and they’re already placing bets on the game. Going to miss the first pitch. Hopefully, he doesn’t have me beheaded.” From his expression, one couldn’t tell if he was joking about the beheading thing, but ...

“I’ll check the individual units,” I volunteered lazily as we’d already agreed. “Where should I start?”

“The large television in the viewing room where the prince is at,” he replied. “The sooner you can get that one working, the better for all of us.”

“Probably should start with the smaller ones. These are all wired in a series of F switches before they transitioned to the standard safeguards and redundancies. The culprit is usually with the TVs that don’t get much attention,” I said, making up some gibberish and waving my arms like I was a pro. Last thing I wanted was to go anywhere near a crowd.

“Uh ... okay,” he replied. “Well, start with the unoccupied rooms. But stay away from the private quarters or any room that is locked,” he said, trying to size me up. I acted as if one of my eyes was slightly crossed, disturbing him to no end.

I saw the cleaning lady who’d called me the other night. She wore orange to identify herself today. As she walked by the three of us, I began humming an Elvis tune, “Heartbreak Hotel,” for her to identify me. In the open-air center of the compound was a large swimming pool with intricate, mosaic tile patterns, which she navigated past. As I moved steadily along with my clipboard, I saw her stop by a locked door on the second floor balcony where she paused to draw an imaginary “X” across its exterior. Just as she did that, I could hear a cacophony of loud voices shouting in Arabic that echoed off the walls. Probably beginning to complain about our keeping them from the UAFA Arab Nations Cup they were assembled to watch today.

Prince Abdel Al-Bin Sada was a big fan of the world’s version of football. After a massive fight at one of the venues in Dubai last year, he’d been kindly asked through intermediaries in his royal family, in the most polite way possible, to stay away for the next half decade. According to my research, the storied prince’s passion for his country’s national pastime was equally met by his passion for the flesh of women other than his wife.

Seeing the time displayed on my watch, I needed to speed up my inspection and troubleshooting ruse. With rough schematics of the place, I’d told my two role players where to be when service was restored. Coming to the door marked with the magic “X,” I took another glance to make sure no one was nearby. With the security cameras and armed detail inside, they’d become complacent here in this south Florida community of old money.

At the designated time, I began counting down.

Then, just as the satellite service was restored, all gathered downstairs on the opposite side of the compound broke out in raucous cheers and jubilation. And at that moment as the game was on, it really was on. Disguised by the festive noises, I put my shoulder into the door and partially busted it open. Grimacing from the pain and scared of there being an alarm, I backed up and swiftly kicked the door where it had been weakened.

It did have an alarm.

Shrill and piercing, I tried to block it out as I entered to see seven scared women, all of them beautiful, exotic, and scantily clad, huddled together on the oversized bed.

A modern-day harem for the prince’s pleasure.

And there was Aswad in the middle.

Aswad. Arabic for black.

Real creative, that prince.

Adrenaline took over. “Hurry! If you want to get out of here, go straight to the back. There’s a boat waiting on the waterway.”

But they were stunned into inactivity. None wanting to be the first to make a move. Or listen to a total stranger posing as a satellite repairman.

“Go! Now! Freedom!” I shouted, this time in shoddy Arabic, to light a fire under them.

Four of them scurried out, briefly making eye contact to thank me, while two remained resolute atop the bed, glaring at me in disgust. Different strokes for different folks I suppose.

Sophia ran into my arms and held me. “Truth,” was all she said. Faintly. Softly. The flowing minimal fabric seemed to almost hover on her body and she smelled of exotic oils. My past sexual partner—and once protégé—awakened disparate emotions that I quickly shoved aside.

“C’mon,” I said as I dropped my hardhat and rapidly led Sophia by the arm. We bounded down the stairs, almost three at a time, until reaching the ground floor and facing the large pool.

“I thought you were in London,” I offered as I yanked her along.

“I was,” Sophia replied. “That’s where I met the prince.”

“Uh huh,” I said, neither approving nor condemning her choices.

“Hey!” my original greeter yelled almost directly across the pool from us. He’d emerged in response to the alarm and wasn’t alone. Three more slabs of meat in suits, probably representing a veritable United Nations, fanned out in a protective pattern from behind him, all going for whatever firearms they carried. At that point, I dumped the remainder of my worker gear and broke into a full-on sprint.

As she struggled to stay on her feet, Sophia protested in my ear. “Why aren’t we taking the waterway out back like you said? You’re going to get us killed!” she screamed.

But there was no escape out back. That was all a diversion that was just now coming into play as the four other kept women were spotted scattering all over the compound in a panic. With some of his people distracted by their sudden appearance, the head of security hollered at us again.

“Stop!” he barked as I could now see the front door in sight.

“You don’t know these people. He’s going to kill us! He’s going to kill us!” Sophia cried as I felt her nails dig into my hand. Her fear was genuine.

“Shut up and strip!” I yelled to her as I took the barest of glimpses at my watch.

“Huh? Are you fuckin’ crazy?”

“Strip. Do it now!” I commanded with an angered, desperate look on my face that told her not to question me. I didn’t like being called crazy.

With each awkward, quickened step, we both began discarding articles of clothing in our wake. Sophia must’ve thought this was some attempt to trip our pursuer up like in the cartoons. If only my gamble were less desperate than that.

With the electronically locked front doors to the compound mere feet away, a bullet rang out just missing my face. It ricocheted off the reinforced metal making both of us skittishly hop in surprise. They figured we were cornered, but probably didn’t want to chance us getting any closer to the street outside ... and American soil.

With the two of us buck naked and back into a full-on sprint, I pushed the button on the only other piece of electronics I had remaining in my possession besides my watch. Praying it was the right frequency, I heard the front doors click with recognition. Had scanned for the proper code when we arrived.

Despite his size, the prince’s head of security was closing on us. And no way in hell did I think he’d politely stop at the door’s edge and let us get away. And with just my birthday suit and Sophia in tow, I wasn’t equipped to wage an unarmed war with a pro.

The hot, humid smell of freedom greeted our noses as Sophia and I rushed out the front and bolted onto the sidewalk.

“What the fuck?” Sophia gasped at the sight that awaited her.

Dozens upon dozens of people stood before us in carefully formed lines in the middle of South Alhambra Circle, others still joining them. Like troops awaiting their general’s instructions.

Men and women.

Mostly brown in skin tone like us, but comprised of all different races and ethnicities with dashes of vanilla thrown in among them.

All matching approximately our heights and builds.

And all nude.

Right as we stepped into the mass of bodies, they began the choreographed routine to Flo Rida’s “Club Can’t Handle Me” that blared from the speakers positioned on the flatbed truck st. . .