Gun

by Erick S. Gray

Genres: Thrillers; Historical Thrillers; Supernatural suspense

Synopsis

Reminiscent of Marvel’s Luke Cage, Erick S. Gray’s debut novel into the realm of the urban supernatural tells a gripping story of power, greed, and soul-sacrificial vengeance. Fans of S.A. Cosby’s Razorblade Tears will be engrossed.
Omar will soon take advantage of his right to bear arms—even though it might cost him his soul.
Residing in one of the poorest and most dangerous neighborhoods in New York, Brownsville—Omar Richards has been the constant target of abuse and bullying.
With his mother dying of cancer, his entire world seemingly falls apart, forcing Omar to question his sanity and religion. As if those terrors weren't enough, Omar's most feared adversary, Brice, is determined to make his life a living hell.
When Omar makes a grim discovery left behind by murdered kingpin Sean Black, his life is forever changed. Especially once he realizes that his new secret weapon has supernatural abilities. Why settle for money, power, and respect when you can have justice!

Release date: October 24, 2023

Publisher: Black Odyssey Media

Print pages: 288

Sample

Prologue

It looked like rain in Brooklyn as dark clouds hovered over the entire city like an invading alien spacecraft, ready to release hell upon the people below. Staring into the sky, the community witnessed black clouds sprawling across the sky, billowing in from the west. The sky just about looked ominous as the clouds’ brassy glare drained the color from buildings and trees, leaving neighborhoods tinted bronze in faltering light. The air started to grow heavy in the community as the humidity pressed down . . . suffocating. The scent of not just rain but trouble became dark and heady. A flickering flash lit up the sky. Then the earth-shattering sound of thunder boomed above, like a cannon going off in the war.

Sean Black seethed by the bedroom window as he gripped a revolver in his hand. They were coming for him. They were coming to take everything he owned and valued—they were coming for his soul. He wasn’t going to allow it. He was king of the neighborhood—a violent drug lord that came to rise by sheer bloodshed, violence, intimidation, and implementing fear. He had power, he felt immortal, and he felt nothing could stop him—especially the DEA.

“Kill ’em all!” a voice boomed to him.

“I will. I promise. I will, for our bond will never divide,” Sean Black replied hotly.

His thirst for implementing bloodshed became ravenous, and the expression on his face became demonic. It was as if hell were written across his face. Those closest to him believed he had gone crazy a long time ago. He would talk to himself—talk to the revolver as if it were an intimate companion—an advisor to him.

The flesh of his fingers tightly wrapped around the handle of the .357 he clutched. The revolver was a chromed Colt Python .357 Magnum with a six-inch barrel, the Rolls-Royce of revolvers. Its markings were distinctive: a black handle. A demonic eye was inside a fiery pyramid (a triangle) on both sides, as seen on the back of a dollar bill—The Eye of Providence. The Eye of Providence is supposed to represent the eye of God watching over humanity, mankind. But this demonic eye was watching over something else. It was something sinister and unbecoming, and it was corrupting of man.

The .357 was impressive and custom-made; it was appealing and undoubtedly hypnotic in someone’s hands. Rumors of the gun say that it was perfectly handcrafted by the devil himself, forged in hellfire, and made from the bones of damned souls. It was believed that the devil himself traveled from hell to earth into humanity’s realm to deliver his gift personally. He placed the hellish tool into men’s hands and watched them become kings and rulers with extreme wealth. In return, he would devour their souls, strengthening his demonic hold on civilization. And it was said that if one stared long enough at the hellish tool, they could see their soul becoming contorted and consumed by looming demons. Their forthcoming future is engulfed in brimstone and hellfire. But men didn’t care because they all craved power and wealth—and there was a certain hunger that they needed to subsist. So, for lengthy possession of the .357 came perpetual unrest, a ravenous thirst for violence . . . and a one-way ticket to absolute damnation.

“Kill ’em all!” the voice continued. “Bring them to me.”

Sean Black pressed his top and bottom teeth together and gritted his teeth in silent fury. He continued to seethe. He started to strip away his clothing, becoming butt-naked inside the room. A burning sensation and a threatening intensity became overwhelming, like the room was on fire.

“Let ’em come! Let ’em fuckin’ come! I’m ready for them! I am. I’m ready to kill ’em all!” he ranted and shouted.

All but one of his men had abandoned the place. C.C. stood poised by the front door, gripping an AK-47, ready for action. He was prepared to cut down cops, agents, and Marshalls; it didn’t matter. Under Sean Black’s influence, he was ready to slaughter for his boss.

DEA agents and local cops came up the stairs like a swarm of bees ready to attack. Sean Black was dangerous. He was a notorious and cold-blooded killer. He had a large body count, and Brooklyn and the city feared him tremendously. It was almost as if he were addicted to killing. In the past three years, Sean Black controlled Brooklyn, and he seemed untouchable. Whenever the government or prosecutors tried to indict him, witnesses would disappear or end up dead. Some were utterly charred and unrecognizable, and evidence would turn up missing, their stories would change, etc. Cops started to believe that Sean Black was the luckiest sonofabitch around. Maybe he was too smart to get caught. And they steadily grew frustrated with his reign of crime and violent pedigree. But his luck ran out. The grand jury issued an indictment, and an arrest warrant was implemented for his immediate arrest. A witness was ready to testify against Sean Black. The witness was prepared to turn state evidence against the violent crime syndicate.

Every cop in town felt it was time to take this maniac off the streets—dead or alive. Cops in the city were ready to take him down fast and hard. And that included a heavily armed task force. The DEA task force stood poised outside the black steel door with their insignia pompously boasted across their uniforms. And on the other side of that door, they swore the devil himself awaited them.

Their radios crackled inside the silent hallway.

“Team One in position,” someone announced into the radio.

It was a tense situation with their automatic weapons ready to kill if necessary and combat boots ready to storm aggressively into the apartment.

“Take that sonofabitch down,” a voice crackled through the radio.

They had their orders. They charged for the door with their commands and assertiveness, ready to take it off the hinges with a battering ram. But to their shock, the steel door wildly swung open, and C.C. started to open fire with the AK-47 on the looming agents.

“Fuck you bitches! Fuck you bitches!” he heatedly shouted. “Y’all want some of this?! Huh? Come get some!”

The AK-47 cut loose in his hands like he was in a Rambo movie.

Brata-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

Two agents were immediately hit before the gunfire was returned. A brief shootout ensued, and a barrage of gunfire hastily took down C.C. His body lay sprawled in the doorway, contorted by a gruesome death. Chaos followed. Several task force agents hurried into the apartment. They immediately swarmed every area of the three-bedroom residence as their radios continued to crackle—men down—men down. Their adrenaline amplified, and their final destination . . . the main bedroom where Sean Black had barricaded himself inside. He stood naked and had become disoriented and enraged. He trembled almost sickly and had become frantic. He scowled as he gripped the .357 Magnum tighter in his hand. He could feel its power coursing through his veins. He felt supernatural, and he wasn’t going down without a fight.

Sean Black seethed. He heard his enemies looming closer. He could almost hear their raging heartbeats and their cavernous growling. They were coming for him. It felt like the gates of hell had opened wide, and demons were spilling out into his area, yearning to gnaw at his bones and flesh. They were coming to take away his power—his precious. They were coming to snatch away his soul. He heard them outside the door—the demonic souls, the damned gathering and plotting to devour him, ready to destroy him, prepared to drag him to hell. Sean Black could hear their giant claws scratching and scraping at the bedroom door. He could smell death. His eyes danced wildly around his head with insanity and paranoia. He stood poised by the door, waving the demonic tool wildly, screaming out gibberish but what appeared to be another language—a foreign language—the devil’s tongue.

“أنا لعنة لك. أنا لعنة لك,” he screamed, saying in Arabic, “I curse you. I curse you!”

The bedroom door rapidly crashed open, and agents urgently spilled into the room with their weapons drawn. Two were instantly met with a gruesome fate as Sean Black aimed and shot them point-blank in the head at a frightening speed with the .357. A naked Sean Black howled at them as he continued his fierce attack, and utter pandemonium followed. Sean continued to open fire at the threat coming for him, and the agents let loose a barrage of bullets that tore into his naked frame like it was paper-thin. Surprisingly, he didn’t go down. He continued to seethe and bled heavily. Then he charged at them with such a ferocious and demonic ability that everyone was astonished.

“What the fuck!” one man shouted.

The .357 went off in Sean’s hand, killing another man. Then he suicidally leaped at law enforcement like a lion onto its prey. Before one man could react, Sean Black’s jaw was in his throat, and he madly sank his teeth into the man’s neck and violently tore away a chunk of his flesh. Blood spewed from the man’s neck uncontrollably as his fellow agents violently wrestled Sean Black away from him. He continued to scream and taunt them in a different language . . . الجحيم يدعو الجحيم يدعو

“Hell is calling! Aaaaaaaahh!”

He acted possessed, and it seemed like there was no stopping him. Shot to shit, Sean Black was still on his feet and ready to kill ’em all. He pivoted with the gun still in his hand and was prepared to shoot again. This time, over a dozen DEA agents let loose on Sean Black with a volley of gunfire that could have taken down a small building. Each bullet cut through him like a shard of glass. Finally, the gunfire forced him through the window. He spilled out onto the fire escape with the .357 released from his grip. It dropped three stories below into a mound of rubbish. Sean Black shrieked, the gun gone from his reach, his possession. He had built an empire with it, but at what price? It contorted his reality. It warped his soul, and now the devil was coming to collect what was owed to him.

He was dying. His breathing had become sparse, and his heartbeat was fluttering and fading. The demons he fought were now upon him, towering over his bullet-riddled frame, snarling at him and ready to shred him to pieces, Sean Black believed. He could feel his flesh on fire, burning profoundly. He could feel the demons begin to gnaw at his bones and flesh—tearing and ripping into his carcass with pleasurable desire. He screamed in agony.

“You hear that?” one agent asked out of the blue.

They did. Each man standing over Sean Black’s body heard the terrifying screams. They stood there on the fire escape in utter bewilderment. They gazed at the body, but how was it possible that they could still hear his screams? He was dead. It was unnatural. What they heard was the echo of Sean Black’s perpetual torture and suffering. It gave each man a deep chill. It was unlike anything they had witnessed before.

In the rubble below, the gun had sunk into obscurity in the narrow alley. It cloaked into a shadow of darkness while a dozen agents searched painstakingly for the weapon. They knew it had fallen into the trash somewhere, but where was it? The .357 Magnum had killed several of their fellow officers, and now it was nowhere to be found. Impossible. Since the shooting, the agents had eyes on the entire area, and no one came or went. They went through every alley area and came up empty—nothing!

“How the fuck does a gun like that just up and disappear?” a superior asked his subordinates. “And you sure no one else was around?”

“I’m sure, sir. We had eyes on the entire area, securing the vicinity. There’s no way.”

“And there are no sewage drains or cracks anywhere it could have fallen into?”

“No. We checked.”

It left them scratching their heads, baffled. What weren’t they seeing?

The .357 was only a heartbeat away from its previous owner. It wasn’t meant to be bagged and tagged into evidence. Instead, it was meant to become forged into someone’s hands and create power and destruction. It was meant to be owned by a human soul and for that soul to be transformed so the devil could collect his next dying soul.

Chapter One

The church on the corner of Livonia Avenue and Watkins Street was lively and vibrant, with singing, clapping, praising, and dancing inside the pews. The choir standing on the small platform behind the pastor joyfully bellowed out, “This little light of mine,” and the small congregation clapped their hands together in joy and sang along with the choir.

“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine. This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine. Jesus is the light; I’m gonna let Him shine; Jesus is the light; I’m gonna let Him shine. Let Him shine, let Him shine, let Him shine,” the people sang.

The Tabernacle Church was situated on the urban Brooklyn block and across the street from the towering projects in Brownsville, Brooklyn. Under the train trestle was a praiseful escape for its members from the violence and drugs that plagued the rough and venomous neighborhood. And though its members were few, they were faithful, loyal, and generous in offering and tithes. And they also implemented many outreach programs to help their troubled community, including feeding the homeless and mentoring at-risk teenagers. Pastor Richard Morgan was their guide. He was a stout, short, and breathless man, and he was also an energetic man with a magnetic personality. He constantly had his members believing that they could walk on water and change anything for the greater good with just God and faith.

“Amen! Amen! Amen! Hallelujah!” Pastor Morgan shouted ecstatically. “Listening to this choir makes you lift your feet and jump for joy. Don’t they? Give them a hand. We might be few, but God almighty, we are powerful. We are influential! We are God’s children, and we are His voice and angels. We won’t quit on them because God will never quit on us!”

“Yes! Amen! Hallelujah!” a woman shouted blissfully. She agreed wholeheartedly with the pastor’s words, repeatedly clapping her hands, smiling, and praiseful. “God will never quit on us!”

“Repeat it, Sister Richards,” Pastor Morgan hollered as he pointed her way.

“God will never quit on us,” repeated the woman.

“Yes! Yes! And that’s why I’m so grateful, so happy, and energetic because our God almighty will never quit on us. Just give Him a chance, and you’ll see . . . You’ll see what He’s about and what He’s capable of . . . God is love, God is guidance, and God is powerful and forgiving!”

“Yes! Hallelujah!” Ms. Richards praised.

She was a thin, brown-skinned lady, a lovely-looking woman in her early forties with slight Cherokee Indian features. Her grandmother was a full-blooded Menominee. Her hair was long, soft, black, and styled into a ponytail. Her full name was Anika Richards, and standing next to her, equally clapping his hands and giving praise, was Omar—her son, her only child.

“Amen!” Omar uttered. “Amen!”

Ms. Richards smiled at her son. She was his pride and joy.

Omar was a thin man. He had a thin face and short, nappy hair, and he stood five foot ten but carried an honest look and personality. He was twenty years old but remained a mama’s boy. His life was simple: home, church, and working at the local grocery store to help his mother pay the bills. They were behind on everything from the rent to the light bill. Their struggles and debt were massive, but Ms. Richards believed everything always happened for a reason. She felt their efforts in the projects and life only brought them closer to God and closer to each other.

She was a devoted Christian, had been so for many years, and she made sure that Omar was a man of God too. She didn’t have much to give, but she gave faithfully to the church via offerings, tithes, and her time volunteering every week. She always told Omar, “I know we don’t have much, but remember. There is always someone out there with less than us . . . who is more unfortunate than us. So we need to be grateful for what we have. It is God’s plan and His will.”

However, they were poor—nickel-and-dime needy and on the verge of eviction. Omar wondered how anyone could have it worse than them. They had nothing. Some nights, they would struggle to put food on the table. But his mama continued to instill in him to have blind faith and courage.

After the benediction, Ms. Richards and Omar went to have a few words with the pastor. She looked at the man like he was the Messiah himself.

“Wonderful service, Pastor Morgan. Beautiful words,” she praised him.

“Thank you, Sister Richards. Seeing you and your son here every Sunday is always a pleasure. God is good, isn’t He?”

“Yes, He is,” she agreed.

“And, Omar, how have you been?”

“I’m doing fine, Pastor,” Omar answered nonchalantly.

“And the job at the grocery store, how is that coming along?”

“It’s coming along okay.”

“Good to hear. Whatever helps, right? God has blessed you with employment to help your mother, and I know it isn’t much. But still, with faith and patience, better things will come,” the pastor proclaimed wholeheartedly.

Omar wanted to believe that.

“And, Sister Richards, I hope to add a few of your famous sweet potato pies at our bake sale next week to help raise money for a new roof.”

“Of course. I’ll have at least five pies baked and ready,” replied Ms. Richards.

The pastor smiled. “Such a blessing. We probably could afford a whole new church with your baking and cooking alone.”

She laughed.

“Pastor Morgan, I need a word with you about next week,” one of the female members uttered, interrupting his moment with the Richards.

“Yes. Yes. Of course,” he said. Then he turned to Ms. Richards and her son. He said, “I need to handle some immediate business; God’s work is twenty-four-seven and unconditional.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“But contact me sometime during the week, and we’ll talk. Y’all get home safe,” he said.

“We will, Pastor. Thank you,” she replied.

Ms. Richards and her son left the church. She had a pleased smile on her face as they stepped foot into the outside world again—Brownsville, Brooklyn. The number 3 train roared above on the elevated railway. The two-way traffic on Livonia was constant on a Sunday afternoon. Residents were out and about that sunny day. Across the street, the drug dealers and drug users were already out and about at the Tilden Housing Projects where they resided. The dealers were addicted to the money, and the users were addicted to the drugs.

Brownsville was dominated by public housing developments of various types, mainly in a small area bounded by Powell Street and Rockaway, Livonia, and Sutter avenues, composed of multiple inward-facing developments located on six superblocks. Thus, the urban community included the most densely concentrated public housing area in the United States. And the Tilden Houses, which was the Richards’ residence, had eight sixteen-story buildings.

Brownsville, many times, had the dubious distinction of being the murder capital of New York City. And the social problems associated with poverty, from crime to drug addiction, plagued the area for decades. It still had a severe problem with crack and heroin, and violent crimes and gang-related gun violence seemed to rise. Vacant storefronts and empty lots were standard in the community. And some of the playgrounds were poorly maintained, with broken lights, dilapidated structures, and unlocked gates. For many residents, their community felt like Baghdad—the terrorists were the gangs and drug lords—even the police and their community had been held hostage for years. Things were so dangerous in the community that a UPS driver who had been robbed at gunpoint needed an armed security guard to accompany him on numerous occasions. And along with poverty and violence, the neighborhood suffered from significant health disparities compared to the rest of the city.

As Omar walked with his mother to their building, she suddenly went into a violent cough. She had to grab the railing nearby to avoid falling over, becoming hunched over, and trying to seize her next breath.

“Ma, are you okay?” Omar asked worriedly.

Finally catching her breath, she stared at her son and replied, “Yes . . . I’m fine. There’s nothing to worry about, Omar.”

He knew she wasn’t okay. She was sick. But she didn’t want to admit how poor her health was. It was the third time that day that she went into a violent cough, couldn’t breathe, and became weak at the knees.

“Maybe we need to go to the clinic again to have you looked at,” he suggested.

“No. There’s no need for that. It’s Sunday anyway; they aren’t open.” She took another breath and continued, “And besides, I want to get home and cook you a nice meal. I’m not trying to spend this glorious afternoon in some emergency room.”

Omar sighed. His mother was pigheaded.

They continued their walk back to the apartment. Omar eyed several young men playing dice in the rundown park in the near distance. They were in a semicircle, gambling, cursing, and drinking. One particular thug that Omar saw was named Brice. He wasn’t fond of Brice. He hated the man—although God said they should love their enemies. As stated in Matthew 5:43, “But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven.”

However, Brice was a menacing bully that terrorized the housing area and the community with violence and intimidation. And for some reason, Brice didn’t like Omar. He was set on making Omar’s life absolutely miserable via physical violence or heatedly mocking him while they were in each other’s presence.

Omar felt that he had stared in that direction too long. Still, before he could turn away, Brice was looking his way, and a smirk formed on the bully’s face seeing Omar walking home with his mother. He continued to gamble, though.

“I know you’re hungry, Omar,” said Ms. Richards, entering their poorly furnished apartment.

“What you gonna cook?” he asked. His stomach was growling. They had been in church all morning until early afternoon, and neither one had any breakfast.

She walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge, peeking inside. There wasn’t much inside but snippets of stuff. But she was a whiz at making something from nothing.

“Omar, I’m gonna need you to go down to the store and pick me up some butter, cheese, and milk,” she said.

“Okay. What you plan on making, Ma?”

She smiled his way. “You’ll see.”

It was all he needed to hear. His mother was a good cook. And though they were poor, she could produce magic in the kitchen on a shoestring budget when it came to feeding her son.

“Let me change clothes first,” he said.

He went into his bedroom to snatch off his tie, his only tie for church, and his good dress shirt. Like the entire apartment, his bedroom was furnished on a meager budget. He didn’t have a bed frame, only a single mattress on the floor placed against the wall, and no drapery curtains hung at the window, only shabby blinds. There were no pictures or posters on the walls. The sun had been pouring down and percolating through the window, and the small room was as hot as an oven. The only cooling the place had was an open window. The only other furniture decorating the bedroom was a wobbly straight-backed chair next to a folding table used for an impromptu desk.

Omar tossed his tie onto the mattress and stripped away his fine dress shirt, replacing it with an unpretentious T-shirt. Along with a pair of denim jeans and his off-brand sneakers, he was the personification of a poor kid clad in Salvation Army and hand-me-downs. He had no flash or style, not even a pierced ear and an earring. Having any jewelry or nice things was far-fetched to his reality. They lived off government assistance, welfare, food stamps, and Medicaid.

“I’ll be right back, Ma,” he said.

He stepped into the narrow hallway covered in graffiti and heard rap music blaring from a neighboring apartment. Dink and his friends were always in the living room with alcohol and weed-fused arguments over NBA 2K. Omar could smell the purple haze they smoked leaching from the apartment into the hallway. He grimaced at the smell of it. The whiff was strong, catching a slight contact from it. He didn’t smoke weed. He ne. . .