The Family Business 3

Book 3: Family Business

by Carl Weber, Treasure Hernandez

Genres: Urban Fantasy; Christian Suspense

Synopsis

New York Times bestselling author Carl Weber collaborates with Treasure Hernandez, creator of A Pimp's Life, to pen this drama-filled third installment of the Duncan clan saga. Here patriarch LC Duncan is in a coma, Vegas has returned from prison, and Junior's love life has provoked Brother X—and his army of Muslim hit men—to declare war on the family.

Release date: February 1, 2015

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

My brother-in-law Harris rode shotgun as Junior drove the Land Rover up Third Avenue toward 125th Street. I was in the backseat watching the streets of Harlem pass by like they were my own personal TV show. Queens might have been my home, but Harlem had been my playground since I was a teenager hanging out with Daryl Graham. I don’t know why it had taken me so long to get back uptown. I’d been home for almost six months, and this was the first time I’d stepped foot higher than 65th Street. I just wished it was for a happier occasion.

By the time Junior wheeled the car in front of the impressive Strivers’ Row brownstone, I had mentally prepared myself for our meeting. I would let Harris take the lead, hanging back with Junior for security purposes, but I had known from the moment the old man told us who we were going to see that I would have to let my presence be felt.

At the door, we were greeted by a middle-aged black woman, clad in all white from head to toe. She had been expecting us, and Harris, always the arrogant fuck, walked right by her like he owned the place. Junior and I, on the other hand, shook the woman’s hand politely then gestured for her to lead the way. Despite his overbearing size, Junior had always been the most respectful of my mother’s children. With that being said, I could tell he was nervous from the way he kept tapping his suit jacket to make sure his gun was still there.

He did, however, remain composed and alert, which was good. One of the first things my Uncle Lou had taught me as a teenager was that you should always be concerned about the unknown. Junior’s nervousness told me that he understood that he was way out of his element. We’d entered a different world by coming here, and neither Harris nor my brother knew what to expect—but I sure as hell did.

The woman led us down a long, wood-paneled hallway that reminded me of something out of an old horror film. She eventually left us in a room that I assumed was a library because the walls were covered by bookcases bearing thousands of old books. Harris immediately took a seat at a large antique table and began rummaging through some papers in his briefcase. Junior, obviously still out of his element, began fiddling with his phone like it was an extension of his hand, most likely texting his girl Sonya.

With no imminent threat, I bypassed the chairs, walking across the room to the bookcases to look through a few of the old books. I was impressed that most, if not all, appeared to be written by people of African descent, and that the large majority of them were first editions. Most people didn’t know this about me, but I was a book enthusiast, and had read a multitude of books even before I went to prison. I also had several highly collectible first editions of my own, though nothing like this.

As I skimmed through an original copy of J. A. Rodgers’ From Superman to Man, the library door opened. Two large, suit-and-bow-tie-wearing brothers entered, posting up on either side of the door like sentries. A few seconds later, a very short, dark-skinned man in his seventies stood in the entryway. I recognized him right away. His name was Minister Aariz Farah, and despite his diminutive stature, you could tell he was to be respected.

Harris, ever the brown-noser in the presence of powerful people, rushed over to Minister Farah like a bitch in heat, with his hand stuck out in greeting.

“Minister Farah, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Harris Grant, legal counsel for Duncan Motors. You spoke to my father-in-law on the phone earlier.” Without saying a word, Minister Farah took Harris’s hand, giving him an unimpressed once-over. “I’d like to introduce you to my brother-in-law, Junior Duncan.”

“Nice to meet you, sir.” Junior walked over and shook his hand. From the cold, hard stare Minister Farah was giving them, it did not look like our meeting was going to be very productive.

Harris gestured toward me. “And over there in the corner is my other brother-in-law—”

“Vegas Duncan!” Minister Farah’s surprisingly strong voice boomed, and his eyes turned to mine. His hard face broke out into a wrinkled smile as he came into the room, arms outstretched, to welcome me into a brotherly hug that barely reached my middle. “As-Salaam-Alaikum, my friend. It’s really good to see you.”

“Wa-Alaikum-Salaam. It is better to see you, Brother Minister,” I replied, pulling back. We stood there, grinning at each other for a moment. I can’t begin to tell you how good it was to see him after all these years. His face brought back memories of a forgotten past.

“It has been too long. My God, what’s it been—ten years?”

“At least. I left the school in 2003.” Minister Farah had been one of my instructors and the associate headmaster at Chi’s Finishing School in Europe.

“I’ve heard your name spoken many times over the years through the grapevine. You’ve made quite a name and reputation for yourself. Your incident with the Armenians was quite honorable. I am very proud of you,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” I replied humbly. “I’ve tried to utilize what you and the others taught me.” Over Minister Farah’s shoulder I could see the surprised expressions on Junior’s and Harris’s faces.

“So, what brings you uptown? You slumming?” he asked with a laugh.

“Heck, if this is slumming, the poverty line must have been raised considerably while I was away,” I joked. “But in all seriousness, Minister, my brother Junior has a problem. I think it’s with one of your people.”

Minister Farah was one of the most respected members of the Nation of Islam. For years he had run the Fruit of Islam, or FOI, their security force.

“Then let’s talk and see if we can solve this problem.” He patted my back, prompting me toward the table. The four of us sat down.

“You say your brother is having a problem with one of my people?”

I turned to Harris, who flipped open his folder and said, “Do you know a man by the name of Brother Xavier? His government name is Charles Brown.” As soon as Harris said the name, a look of concern crossed Minister Farah’s face.

“Yes, I know him. He is not a man to be trifled with, but he is not one of my people. Not anymore.”

“He’s not? What did he do? Why did you break ties?” Harris questioned in rapid-fire succession.

“For many years Xavier was an important man in the Nation. I actually appointed him head of the New York FOI myself. He was a hardworking, honorable man who moved up the ranks swiftly, until he lost his way.”

“Lost his way how?” Harris chimed in before I could interject. Minister Farah shook his head, looking worried.

“Without any of us in the hierarchy of the Nation realizing it, he was committing robberies along with the men he was supposed to be leading closer to Allah,” Minister Farah’s tone sounded like he had tasted something terrible. Just the memory of it infuriated him.

“Wow, now that’s what I call a gutsy move,” Harris added, stopping short of sounding impressed. I glanced at Junior, who was still taking it all in.

“Obviously we couldn’t allow him to continue to represent the Nation or the FOI. We released him from his position, and he was shunned from our community. We believed that would be enough to bring him back in line, but we were wrong.”

“In what way?” I asked.

“Instead of humbling him, it led him to create his own organization, the Islamic Black Panther Party, a very powerful, radical group that he now runs very successfully from a jail cell.”

“Whoa! The Islamic Black Panther Party is run by Brother X. You’re telling me this Brother Xavier is the same man they call Brother X in prison?” I stared at Minister Farah uneasily. All of a sudden his level of concern was nothing compared to mine.

Minister Farah nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard him called Brother X before.”

“You know this guy, Vegas?” Junior asked.

“I never met the man, but if we’re talking about the same person, we have a much bigger problem than we thought. The IBPP are known for carrying out the majority of the paid prison hits in New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut. They pride themselves on being able to get to anyone, anywhere in the prison system. Last year they got those three guys the Feds were holding in protective custody for that big Mob trial. To this day nobody knows how they got in those cells. The Russians, the Jews, and the Italians use them extensively.” I finished with a shiver. I literally had goose bumps on my arms.

Minister Farah ran his hand across his face. “They have over a hundred highly-trained men in the prison system at any time, and have at least that many on the outside. They are as good as any of the people trained by the FOI, and a hundred times more deadly because they have no conscience.”

“Jesus Christ, what the hell has Sonya gotten us into, Junior?” Harris got up and started pacing nervously, reminding me of why I hated his punk ass so much.

Ignoring Harris, Minister Farah turned to Junior, full of apprehension. “Young man, I must ask you, what is your business with Xavier?”

Junior glanced over at Minister Farah hesitantly, lowering his head. “I’m sleeping with his wife.”

“And he’s not very happy about it,” Harris added.

Minister Farah sat back in his chair, “Oh, that’s not good. That’s not good at all. Did you know this woman was married?”

“Of course he did,” Harris cut in angrily. He’d stopped pacing and was standing in front of Junior, staring down at him like a father about to chastise his child. “It was the rest of us who didn’t know. He could bring down the whole damn family with this. And for what—some other man’s pussy?”

“Shut up, Harris!” I growled. Junior remained silent, but I could tell from the way he was glaring at Harris that he was about to take his past few days of frustration out on our brother-in-law. As much as I might have liked to see him knock Harris on his ass, we had too many threats from outside sources to start fighting within the family. “Did you hear me? I said sit down and shut up!” I repeated through gritted teeth.

“Why, Vegas? We all know I’m telling the truth. All the man wants is for Junior to stop screwing his wife. We wouldn’t even be he here if he’d just jettison the bitch!”

That was when Junior snapped. He jumped up and grabbed Harris by the throat with one hand, lifting him off the ground like a rag doll. His other hand was pulled back in a fist, ready to unleash his fury onto Harris’s face. All of a sudden, my big-talking brother-in-law looked like he wanted to shit his pants. He glanced at me, but I had nothing for him. I’d already warned him. He should have known better than to call Sonya outside her name.

“You call her a bitch again and I’ll make my sister a widow. You understand me?”

“Yeah, yeah, I was just trying to make a point,” Harris squealed, barely able to speak.

“So am I.” Junior released him, and he fell to the floor. “I’m gonna get some air. I’ll meet you at the car, Vegas.”

Minister Farah sighed, leaning closer to me as we watched Junior head out the door. “You do realize your brother-in-law is right. You must convince your brother to end this affair. This woman is married, and Allah considers that sacred. Now that your brother has been warned, Brother Xavier will have no choice but to end his life and the lives of anyone who stands in his way, if only to save face.”

The displeasure on Minister Farah’s face was pronounced. It was one thing to have a business problem where the most you could lose was money, but this was personal. The one thing the old man taught me back in the day was that personal things always lead to trouble with a capital T. I stood up, and so did Minister Farah.

“I need your help on this, old friend. I need to know that my brother can walk the streets and be safe. Can you help me?”

He reached out and patted my shoulder like the friend that he was. “I will do what I can. We still have people who are close to Brother Xavier’s people. However, it may be of little help. Islamic law is very clear on adultery. It is not to be tolerated.”

I nodded, trusting that he would do whatever he could to help me. “Thank you, Minister. All I can ask is that you try.”

He nodded, reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out an envelope. “I was asked to give you this if I ever ran across you.” He handed it to me.

“Who’s it from?”

“I think you will get all the answers you need when you open it.”

I studied his face for a brief moment, but he gave away nothing, so I tore open the envelope. Inside was a single postcard with a picture of Israel. I turned it over and saw that the only thing written on the back was STM3482. A lump developed in my throat as I turned the postcard back over to the picture.

“Oh God! Oh my God! I’m about to come! I’m about to come!” my cousin Paris announced to the world, way louder than necessary.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Stavros’s fine ass was eating the hell outta her, but then again, Paris had a knack for being overly dramatic. I can only imagine how over the top she would have been if she’d known I was standing in the doorway watching. They were, however, putting on quite a stimulating show. I was getting hot just watching her hold onto his head and ride his face like a bucking bronco. When she lifted her ass off the bed and started screaming, I could almost feel her satisfaction.

“Shit, I’m coming! I’m coming! I’m fucking coming!”

She eventually released his head like a hot potato, collapsing on the bed, totally spent. That’s when Stavros noticed me in the doorway. He didn’t saying anything; he just stared at my bare breasts, waving his hand for me to come over and make their little party a threesome. I had to admit the thought was very appealing. He certainly was fine enough, and from the size of his dick, I knew he had the equipment to handle two women. Only problem was that Paris didn’t play well with others when it came to men, especially not when it came to me. Besides, I had already fucked his cousin Felix less than an hour ago.

So, instead of heading to the bed to join them, I walked over to my knapsack to retrieve what I had come down from the top deck for in the first place. As I pulled out my suntan lotion, Paris was still blissfully recovering from her mega-orgasm, and Stavros was still grinning at me hopefully as he mounted her. Of course, his grin faded quickly when I pulled out my silenced .45, pointing it at his head.

“Oh shit!” he murmured in that sexy Greek accent. Paris opened her eyes just as I pulled the trigger.

Thunk! Thunk!

Two silenced bullets hit Stavros in the head, killing him instantly and splattering blood all over Paris’s naked body. From the look she gave me, I could tell she was not a happy camper about me killing her new lover, and even more pissed about the blood.

“Really, Sasha? Really! You had to kill him now? You couldn’t stick to the plan and wait until after I fucked him?” She pointed to his still hard cock, shaking her head in disappointment. We both hated to see a good dick go to waste.

“Sorry, but we don’t have time for that. Our timetable’s been moved up,” I was trying not to give away my concern about the message I had just received on my cell phone.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Hand me a towel so we can get the fuck out of here.”

I loved the way she could go from zero to not giving a fuck in two seconds. I threw her a towel and watched her climb out of bed.

“What about his partner?”

“Oh, Felix,” I replied. “Poor Felix is dead.”

“Good, but I bet you fucked his ass before you killed him, didn’t you?” She glared at me jealously as she toweled off the blood. All I could do was smirk because she was right—and he did have some good dick. “Bitch!” Paris replied when she noticed my satisfied expression.

“Look, this is not the time or place to get petty. We still have a job to do.”

“I know that. It would have been easier to do at night,” she replied, slipping into her bikini bottom. “I just don’t know why Orlando’s always upping the timeline on our asses. We weren’t supposed to make a move on anyone until tonight. Why can’t he just let me do my job?”

“It wasn’t O who texted me. It was Aunt Chippy. She wants us home on the first thing smoking.”

“My mother?” Paris was puzzled. “My mother doesn’t get involved with operations or troubleshooting.”

I shifted my head in her direction, slipping on my knapsack. “Exactly! So you know what that means, don’t you?”

“Yeah, something’s going down in New York. Come on. Let’s go find that fat bastard LaSalle. It’s time to take our asses home.” She reached into a knapsack similar to mine and pulled out a silenced Glock. By taking out Stavros and Felix, I had made our job that much easier, but taking out LaSalle was not going to be anywhere near as simple as killing his horny nephews.

We left the cabin and made our way down the hall, trying our best to hide our guns. It wasn’t easy, considering we were wearing only bikini bottoms and knapsacks. When we arrived at the master stateroom, Paris took out the sentry with one shot.

Thunk.

Taking a deep breath, I counted down on my fingers: three, two, one. On one, I opened the door and we stormed the room with guns blazing. What we found, however, was far from what we expected. Oh, LaSalle was there all right, but he wasn’t in any shape to be a threat to us. In fact, his fat ass was tied up to a four-poster bed, naked as the day he was born, with a sock in his mouth.

What the fuck? Paris and I shared a confused look, with guns still drawn, until we heard a familiar laugh.

“What took you so long?” We turned to the voice, and there was my flamboyant cousin Rio, sitting in a captain’s chair with a cell phone to his ear, sipping a glass of red wine like he didn’t have a care in the world. At his feet was an opened briefcase filled with money

“Rio!” Paris shouted with relief. Rio was her twin brother, and half the reason we had been so worried about LaSalle was because we knew Rio was with him. “You were supposed to seduce him—not tie him up!”

“I did. I seduced his ass right into those ropes. I’m sorry, I don’t do fat or smelly, and he’s both.” Rio looked repulsed, waving his hand past his nose. I couldn’t help it; I had to laugh.

“Please, Sasha. Don’t encourage him,” Paris snapped at me before turning her attention back to her twin brother. “Ree, we need to get outta here.”

“I know. I got Ma’s text. I’m talking to the pilot right now. The jet should be prepped and ready to go in an hour.”

“Good. What’s this guy’s status? He say anything?” Paris walked over and pulled the sock out of LaSalle’s mouth.

“Other than threatening to chop me up into little pieces and shove me back up my mother’s womb, nothin’.”

“And I’m going to do the same thing to you, bitch!” LaSalle spat like a maniac.

“Well, I guess that would make sense, considering we’re twins.” Paris pointed her Glock at his temple. “Just one problem. How you going to do all that when you’re going to be dead in ten minutes?”

His facial expression softened, but his voice remained strong. “Then my nephews will avenge me. They will kill you all!”

“Oh, I doubt that.” Paris giggled, waving me over. I made four long strides, pointing my .45 at his other temple. “You see, Sasha here killed Stavros and Felix.”

His eyes were now wide open, his expression a mix of anger and fear.

“A month ago, four masked men stole a shipment of pure black tar heroin from a car carrier in South Carolina. That shipment surfaced in Detroit last week. The entire crew who brought it is dead. Sasha killed them too.” Paris grinned, tilting her head. “Oh, from the look she’s giving you right now, I’m pretty sure she wants to kill you too.”

Gone was the anger from his face. Dude could no longer hide his fear. I smiled at him then shouted, “Boo!” and he let out the stinkiest fart I’d ever witnessed. It was so nasty you could almost taste it.

“Oh my God, Sasha. What the hell you do that for?” Rio snapped, covering his lower face with a handkerchief and waving his hand. “This fool’s been eating onions and hot dogs all day.”

“Well, I’m about to take him out of his misery.” I cocked the hammer on my gun.

“I’m sorry,” he said in this whiny, pathetic voice. “Please don’t kill me.”

“You want to live?” Paris asked. LaSalle nodded. “. . .