Silent Judgment

by Zaire Crown

Genres: Conspiracy Thrillers

Synopsis

When Detroit’s most-feared street executioner, a deaf thug known as Silence, is assigned the unsavory task of protecting a controversial Black conservative, brutal opposing factions, his own personal feelings of revulsion, and a flourishing opioid addiction threaten to bring him to his knees once and for all.

Tapping into the rising tide of right-wing radicalism within the African American community with a ripped-from-the-headlines plot, Zaire Crown’s gritty, intense new urban thriller is perfect for fans of JaQuavis Coleman and Alex Segura alike.

TV news personality Amelia Chess has made her career by being an unapologetic Black conservative who is relentless in her attacks on the liberal left, pro-choice supporters, the LGBTQ community, and scathing in her criticism of her own race. But when two Black cops shoot an unarmed white teen, Amelia’s scorched earth editorial gets her canceled—and she starts receiving death threats.

Silence has no intention of playing bodyguard to a sellout—until the order comes down from the mysterious kingpin he owes a favor. Soon, Silence is spending time with Amelia and her gifted teenage son, Antwon—and starting to understand what lies beneath Amelia’s villainous persona. And once the threats turn real, Silence discovers that Amelia is being targeted by the same militia he escaped as a teen—and their interest in her is just part of a larger, far more dangerous conspiracy.

When an enemy female assassin goes too far, Silence finds himself at the center of a complicated love triangle, battling brutal opposing factions—and fighting the personal demons that could destroy him for good…

Release date: January 30, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

The call came at three thirty in the morning.

And I had just spent the last two and a half hours whooping Kierra. That angry dick tried to screw her through the mattress and had eventually fallen asleep in it.

Would’ve just said fuck whoever was trying to disturb my post-nut nod when my fuck buddy heard the buzzing on the nightstand. But this was the Big Phone. The one I couldn’t ignore.

That text was what put my naked ass into some sweats, my bare feet into some boots, and had me in my Ram 1500 headed to the worst neighborhood on the eastside of Detroit at four o’clock in the morning. Pissed off and still half asleep. I carried a 10mm Glock G20 on my lap along with an AR-15 on the back seat. I pulled into the Citgo in the area of Mack and Conners, still recalling that I didn’t have much luck with eastside gas stations—damn near got robbed and killed at one not far from here.

Prime and his boys were already there. Two old-school Chevys and a new Trackhawk Jeep had the Rolls-Royce wedged in at the pumps. The white exotic had traded paint with the gray Cutlass, trying to fight its way out. I parked by the service mart, jumped out the pickup I was leasing in Kierra’s name. A chilly April wind snaked up my pantleg and made me regret not slipping on boxers.

Prime had cut his dreads off about a year back—I guess the hair was a reminder of his struggle years, a point in his timeline he was eager to erase. At six-foot-seven, he no longer resembled a broke-ass 2 Chainz: a mink hood covered a clean shaved head, buffalo-horn Cartiers covered his face, expensive denim covered his legs, and limited-edition Jordan 11s covered his feet. He met me with a crew of seven at his back. His greeting equaled the night’s chill.

“This bitch must be crazy. You lucky this my hood. If it wasn’t for the juice you got with me, niggas would’ve been feasting.”

I just let him have that, didn’t bother to explain that he was the lucky one. Prime might have seen her face once or twice in the newspaper but had no idea of who the woman in that car really was. More importantly, he didn’t know who she was connected to. If anything had happened to her, this hood he was so proud of would’ve suffered something biblical. I’m talking about five to six acres of nothing but smoke and ash.

Prime and his boys parted to let me through. I got a couple of glares, was able to pick up on the hostile energy. This would be a problem soon. Dark clouds that forecast a pending storm.

The white paint and chrome of the Rolls-Royce Ghost shimmered like something ethereal under the gas station’s pavilion lights. I approached the driver’s door and softly tapped on the window. The rich lady was slumped in her seat with her chin touching her chest. She raised her head and stared as if it took a few seconds to bring me into focus. Once recognition kicked in, I received a disgusted frown; then she closed her eyes against me. Her head rolled to the right, and she returned to the stupor of whatever drugs momentarily claimed her.

I walked around to the passenger door and let myself in. When I claimed the seat, she momentarily snapped awake. She looked as if locking the doors only occurred to her then. She screamed at me to get out.

I leaned back and gave her an apologetic refusal. I used my forearms to deflect the blows that I knew were coming next. After half a dozen attempts to punch my face, she exhausted herself, then slumped back in her seat.

She looked broken—and it pained me to see it, because I had played some small part in the breaking. Her eyes were puffy and swollen. She looked to have aged five years in the few months since I had seen her last. Still beautiful, just damaged. Mascara tears streaked her face, the makeup hastily applied only for effect.

She wore an ankle-length white spotted sable coat along with what appeared to be every piece of jewelry that she owned. She was a walking eight-figure lick, had on more jewels than an ancient Persian king. There were maybe thirty diamond necklaces on her chest, forearms sleeved in bracelets, three to four rings shared each finger.

And just to insure the worst possible outcome, she was naked under the mink.

Her head drifted with her eyes closed before she snapped back to reality. She turned to me and seemed to be surprised that I was still there. I smelled brown liquor wafting through her pores, but I couldn’t guess whether it was powder or pills that glazed her gray-green eyes.

She had perched between her lips a half-smoked blunt she fished from the ashtray. I assisted with my own lighter after she made several failed attempts to put fire to it.

“This ain’t some fake-ass cry for attention. I know the devil is watching. I figured he might send somebody—didn’t think it would be your snake ass—” She spoke the rest of the insult while blowing smoke, which made it difficult for me.

She leaned forward a bit in her seat and turned her shoulder away from me. “You came to pull the knife out my back. Or you gone be a real nigga this time and at least look me in the eye when you stab me in the front?”

I assumed the question was rhetorical. I just sat there inhaling the scent of rich bespoke leather mingled with high-grade Kush. There was more pain and regret swimming through me than I let be revealed in my stare.

The woman put on a smile that wasn’t meant to appear genuine. “Go ahead. Ask me how my day went.”

I accepted the blunt when she offered it. I made a gimme motion with my hand.

“First, I finessed a Texas billionaire out of a thirty percent stake in his oil refinery. Then, I closed a deal that will bring almost seventeen thousand new jobs to the city, and boost my personal network another seventy million. After that, I went to St. Jude Hospital and pulled the plug on my baby girl.”

I cringed as if punched in the stomach. Her daughter’s cancer battle had been kept out the news, but I had been kept abreast through my sources. Glioblastoma. I wasn’t a doctor, only knew it was something in the brain that was aggressive. The failed attempt at surgery had dropped Tanisha into a coma. The girl was just six years old.

After two quick puffs, I passed her the weed back. She needed that shit way more than me.

I looked at the woman, admiring the strength it must’ve taken for her to make the hardest decision a mother could possibly face. But also seeing that the decision had bankrupt all the strength she had left.

There was no condolence I could offer that felt adequate. As much as she hated me, and had every right to, the need for human contact overrode the resentment. She permitted me to put my hand on top of hers.

I sent Prime a text telling him that he and his boys could go. I had her now, and wasn’t shit going to happen to her while she was with me. And for a while, we sat and smoked in silence.

Eventually the rich lady let me take her home. I transferred Tuesday to the passenger seat. I drove her and the Rolls-Royce back out to Farmington Hills.

I pulled into the gated grounds of her seventeen-million-dollar estate. Some might find it hard to believe that this same woman, who owned and ran one of the biggest export companies in the country, who had single-handedly revitalized entire areas in the inner city on the legitimate side, who had taken down cartel bosses on the criminal side, not ten years ago was a stripper robbing dope boys just to make ends meet. She was a bossy bitch who had climbed her way up from nothing.

I had once helped to protect her and her family. I felt the loss of her daughter, not like it were my own, but empathized only because I had a child I couldn’t be with.

I parked the Ghost beneath the portico of a modern castle. Her home was a Tudor-inspired masterpiece with turrets and parapets. Landscape lighting bathed the limestone façade. Large, vaulted windows offered sneak peeks at the luxury within.

I offered my shoulder to lean on as I walked her to the front door. The big man met us at the entrance. He charged towards me with his face twisted in fury.

“Watch out. I got her.” He scooped his friend and benefactor up into his arms like a child after throwing me a Fuck you! glare. DelRay had every right to be pissed at me, too. Which was probably the only reason he didn’t get fucked-up. He used to bounce for her when Tuesday owned her strip club, and after a brief stint as an arms dealer, was now her protector and confidant. He was six-nine and 400 pounds but still didn’t want it with me.

I typed into my phone and let DelRay read the unsent text. I explained if he really had her, I wouldn’t have gotten the call and then had to call in the favor with Prime to make sure she was secure.

I followed DelRay as he carried her through a foyer that could hold my entire house, up a split staircase with marble balustrades to a second-floor suite. He laid Tuesday down with a gentleness that came from pure love. He removed her mink and tucked her into bed like a child. I watched this tender moment between friends, awed and envious.

“Get yo’ bitch ass out of here!” DelRay said to me after turning away from a massive canopy bed with velvet drapery. He emphasized his comment with a dismissive wave of the hand.

The Shango warrior in me wanted to test myself against one of the few people who was bigger than me, but the guilt kept my hands unfisted. I turned and was ready to slink out of the room before I noticed Tuesday flagging for my attention in the reflection of a mirrored vanity.

I approached her bed, head down, shoulders stooped. I already knew what she was about to ask me and already knew I couldn’t do a damn thing to help her.

“You know where he’s at.”

I shook my head, because I genuinely didn’t.

“Fuck you. You helped him steal from me.”

Tuesday had come to me during a crisis point in her life: she was broke, on the run, and under pressure from the Mexican cartels. She had hired me to protect her, never knowing that me and her husband already had a previous arrangement. So when her husband took something from her, it looked like I played a role in it. When in truth, I was just as fucked-up as she was..

I didn’t waste my time or cellular data trying to text her my side of the story. I knew it wouldn’t matter.

“You don’t have a fucking clue of who he really is or what he’s connected to. All the ghost stories and rumors they spread about The Invisible Man are mostly bullshit. But the truth is a helluva lot worse.

“And now he’s got his arm so far up your goddamn back that your breath smells like hand sanitizer.” I didn’t like being compared to a puppet but couldn’t fake the wounded pride because it wasn’t untrue.

But as much as I felt her pain, I couldn’t help her find her husband. If I had the voice, I would explain that me and dude didn’t text back and forth, wasn’t hitting up Pistons games together with seats on the hardwood. About a year ago, he had given me a phone, and I was expected to obey the orders from the other end. The texts might come from him or from some faceless henchman. Might come from someone seated across the street, or from somebody in Japan.

I had to stay in line for right now. I had been taught since I could walk how to fight, kill, and survive by any means, but the man she had married was probably the only man in the world I genuinely feared.

And not for what he could do to me, because I had no fear of dying. But I had loved ones to consider. And his reach was such that he could get to them anytime he wanted.

I could only apologize with my eyes as she cursed and screamed at me. Tuesday was talking too fast for me to make out the words, but I could easily infer that she wanted me to get the fuck out.

It took damn near a hundred dollars to get back to the city by cab, and then I had to pick my truck up from Prime before I made it home. A few months back, I had bought myself a low-key crib in the area of West 6 Mile and Asbury Park. I had no connections to this hood, which was exactly why I made the move. This was an area that had gone to shit during Detroit’s economic decline, but had been recently revitalized thanks to subsidies and home ownership grants provided by Abel Incorporated. Ironically, the same rich lady who I had refused to help was the very one responsible for helping me own a $140,000 home for a fraction of the price.

While I had gotten the house for pennies on the dollar, the renovations done to the interior were what had dealt the heaviest blow to my pockets. Thanks to corporate sponsorship, the community was on the upswing, but my line of work had me taking no chances when it came to security. Motion-sensor lights and doorbell cameras might have been enough for the neighbors. On the outside, my home looked just as mundane as any other on the block, but any person foolish enough to try to break in would get a huge surprise.

After I backed my Ram into the driveway, I let myself in through the side door, expecting full well for Kierra to still be up. She was stretched across my bed, nibbling on the tines of a plastic fork while watching the morning news. I collapsed next to her, lying head to foot. My face said, Damn, straight up? at seeing that she was in a pair of my Jordan hoop shorts with no bra, and more than likely no panties underneath.

She rolled her eyes in response to me. “They smell like yo’ balls.” Those were my workout shorts, pulled from my dirty clothes hamper. I didn’t bother to comment on the fact that her nasty ass had sniffed them and still put them on anyway.

“I thought you might be hungry.” Passing through the kitchen, I had seen the plate of bacon, eggs, and grits left for me in the microwave. I blinked my thanks. But I had no appetite, just wanted to rest my eyes for the next few hours.

While I usually went for plus-sized girls, Kierra had the tall and thin frame of a runway model with the face to match. Her lips were so thick and full that they made you think of nothing other than the erotic promises of her mouth. Kierra also had an oral fixation—always had to be biting, chewing, or sucking on something. Usually me.

But outside of the fact of being a grade-A soul snatcher, Kierra was cool enough to be one of the few people who knew where I stayed. She played her position, didn’t ask too many questions, and she had all her own shit.

I had a 62-inch Vizio set up in my room. Kierra switched on the closed-captioning, assuming I wanted to follow along with the news story, even though I gave less than a few fucks. Lately the media cycle had been dominated by the latest police killing of another unarmed teen, complete with all the prepackaged generic outrage and calls for social justice. The twist being that this time it was a white kid killed by a Black cop.

I rolled onto my side and tried to get a three-hour nap. Later that morning, I had moves to shoot that I needed to be fresh for.

The Big Phone had interrupted my sleep. I called it the Big Phone not due to the actual size of the device, but who was represented on the other end.

I was drifting off when I felt fingers undoing the drawstrings of my sweats. I knew it was coming, and she ignored me even after I shook my head. She pulled my beast free and inhaled me while I was still soft.

When we met, she had jokingly introduced herself as “Givenya Moorehead.” I eventually changed her nickname to “The Android,” because I swear this chick never eats, sleeps, or gets tired. Kierra is like a dick-sucking machine. She don’t even need you to be into it.

I was too tired to fuck and too tired to fight her off me. My beast stiffened without my consent, and Kierra attacked him hungrily with those monster lips and a suction that resembled a plunger unclogging a stopped toilet.

And even though it was the best head I ever had, she still couldn’t take my mind off of Quianna. My hazel-eyed baby momma was somewhere raising my one-year-old son without me. The fault was totally my own. I had driven her away before learning that she was carrying my seed. My connections on the other end of the Big Phone had the means to find her, but I didn’t want to know. It was safest for all of us if I kept my distance for the time being. Just until I got these dangerous muthafuckas off my back.

Eventually Kierra’s throat felt good enough to take my thoughts away from my preoccupation with Quianna. Kierra worked my stick with both hands, jacked me into her mouth. She rubbed the dick all over face, then sucked the balls with care. Each time she gave me head, I felt as if she were auditioning for something. Like there were hidden cameras in the room that I didn’t know about, and she was trying to win a contract with Vivid Video.

I found a little bit of energy from somewhere that I was willing to expend on her. I pulled her up and let her straddle me. The advantage to having Kierra was that she was lightweight and extremely flexible. Plus when she rides the dick, she can go absolutely buck, while the thicker girls can only bounce or just grind back and forth.

She threw that wet on me in circles, twists, and reverse spins. I met her with upward thrusts that soon had her mouthing nonsensical shit I couldn’t make out. I always loved watching the faces a woman makes from the pleasure and pain my ten-inch beast provides. I could always tell that Kierra was close to her nut when she closed her eyes and started biting her lips.

I had another few rounds in me but wasn’t looking to prolong things. I started chasing mine with short, quick jackrabbit pumps. I got off five strokes after her. We weren’t four hours removed from our last session, so I reached a not particularly strong, but satisfactory finish.

But that sudden burst of energy left right along with my semen. I was dozing off before she even had a chance to climb off of me.

My post-coital nap hardly lasted fifty minutes before I was up and out the door again—this time wearing drawers.

From my newly revitalized neighborhood, I drove to an area of Schoolcraft Road that was still in the struggle. The only thriving business was a liquor store that anchored the two main cross streets. The livable dwellings were losing three-to-one to scorched shells and empty plots filled with bulk trash.

I parked near the corner of Robson Street and watched the block’s outlier: the huge brick Colonial was well-tended and would easily list for half a million in the suburbs. I didn’t have to wait twenty minutes before the burgundy Tahoe pulled from the driveway, looking country as hell with too many chrome accents and big thirty-inch rims. The product of another young nigga with more money than discretion.

Thirty seconds after he bent the corner, I was out the door of my pickup. I took the alley and approached his house from the rear. I vaulted a seven-foot privacy fence with a single hop.

The backyard was as well-maintained as the house. A thick velveteen lawn with fresh mower tracks and manicured hedges, a stone barbecue pit, an aluminum tool shed.

And three large cane corsos. One tan and two dark gray that might have been litter mates. All running towards me with a head full of steam. These were real killers, too. They didn’t bark or make some aggressive show of intimidation. They came straight in for the attack on the intruder.

What happened next would probably piss off the people at PETA.

The first one to reach me got it the worst. She tried to snap at my leg but only got a mouthful of Levi denim and started to shake. I felt guilty about the hammer punch I dropped on the top of her skull. She let out a loud yelp, then staggered away, dizzied.

The second one leaped at my chest but got caught midair. I continued his upward path with the same power that allowed me to clean-and-jerk 360 when I was still locked up. I launched the eighty-pound canine maybe twelve feet high. It flipped wildly, head over tail, until it disappeared on the other side of the privacy fence. I guessed its landing was less graceful than a feline.

The third one did the most damage, managing to lock onto my left hand. My first instinct was to punch the shit out of him with my right, but guilt still gnawed at me. Instead I snatched off my Louie belt and looped it around his neck. I didn’t strangle him, just applied enough pressure to squeeze out all the fight. When I released him, he slumped into the grass as if ready for his afternoon nap.

This was my fault, bad recon. I should’ve known he had dogs before coming in and planned accordingly. This was a rush job, something handed to me in haste with an extremely tight window to pull off. I had only been watching the house for two days when I usually took a longer time to do a scouting report.

I crept towards the back of the house, sure I was on camera but not giving a fuck. I knew other than doorbell monitors, there wasn’t a home security system. So I launched an aluminum deck chair straight through the glass in a sliding patio door.

I wasn’t expecting any more surprises. I knew nobody was home but still moved like I didn’t have time to waste.

The interior wasn’t what I expected for a man in his twenties. Spacious and clean with gleaming hardwood floors. Antique mahogany tables and floral-printed drapery that matched the living room set. Like he had gotten the furniture from his grandmother.

But I tore all that shit up looking for the work. I ripped open the couches and pulled all the clothes out the closets. I snatched out cabinet drawers to dump the contents on the floor. I was about as bad as the police during a raid.

In the master bedroom upstairs, I helped myself to a busted-down Audemars Piguet and a nice pinky ring I found on the dresser. When I flipped over the king-sized mattress, there was a Mossberg pump-action 12-gauge under the bed that also got accepted as a donation. The closet was filled with retro Adidas and tracksuits, but I didn’t find a safe. Dude was clearly getting to a decent bag, but if he had a stash, it wasn’t there.

The second upstairs bedroom was barely furnished and gave me flashbacks of being in the joint. No carpet, dresser, nor drapery. The windows were covered with interior bars. The twin-sized bed had chains attached to the footrest. I got a creepy vibe.

This was starting to look like a dry run, and I was trying to imagine what the motivation might be for sending me on it. My business relationship with Dirty Red was still tentative, and neither of us quite trusted the other yet. But until then, his targets had always been on point and our dealings mutually beneficial.

I hit the basement stairs, trying to be as light as I could be on my toes. The casement windows were painted over, leaving the basement nearly pitch dark even at eleven in the morning on a cloudless spring day. I didn’t bother searching for a light switch. A Glock G20 came off my waistband at the same time a small LED flashlight came from the cargo pocket of my sweats. I rested my left wrist on top of my right. A tool in each hand. I sank into the blackness, swinging my arms in whatever direction I turned. My left would spotlight the potential threat before my right would blow it away.

Even before reaching the bottom of the stairs, I smelled bullshit weed and felt the tremulous vibrations of a subwoofer. I . . .