Page 64 of Brown Sugar
Shawn doesn’t slow up ’til he’s approaching the final street where his condo’s located. He swings into a parking spot in front of the two-storied, red-roofed Spanish style building, oblivious to the fact that somebody in a big-ass Hummer’s trailed him every mile.
I wait until he’s pressed the button for his car alarm and starts down the pebbled pathway before I ambush him.
Coming up quickly from behind, I press the barrel of my Glock into his temple and issue simple instructions.
“Not another step, motherfucker.”
“What the?—”
“Hands up,” I go on. “Don’t make a sound. You do, I’ll blow your brains out.”
His throat makes a grunting noise in protest, like he’s about to push the limit and find out. Wisely, he decides against it at the last second.
Probably because he doesn’t want his brains splattered on the concrete beneath our feet.
“You’re going to hand over your wallet and phone. Then you’re going to walk calmly toward my vehicle and get in. Nod if you understand.”
His jaw works as if he’s fighting through another urge to protest. He concedes with a slight nod, digging into the pocket of his joggers to retrieve the requested items. I snatch both away with my free hand.
We turn slowly, with Shawn still in front of me and my Glock still pressed against his temple. Being an NBA player, he’s a tall man.
But so am I.
Tallandbroad compared to his much leaner frame.
Shawn opens the passenger door, then slides into the seat. His gaze immediately shoots toward me, his first real view of who’s accosted him. Instant loathing burns in his eyes and he bares gritted teeth.
I grin in response. “Yeah, that’s right. It’s me, motherfucker. Who else did you think it was? We’re going on a field trip. But first…”
I climb behind the steering wheel, holding his phone to his face for the facial recognition technology. Once it’s unlocked, I pull up his contacts list.
“Bro, what the fuck!?” Shawn blurts out in irritation. “I didn’t give you permission to go through my phone!”
“Shut up. You’ve got the guy targeting Kiana saved in your phone? This Henry B. asshole?”
“Who’s Henry? And who’s targeting her?”
“You know exactly who the fuck I’m talking about. The same asshole you were going to sell photos of Kiana to.”
“This is way out of pocket. You’ve got no right?—”
“Answer in the next five seconds or I’m making good on my initial promise. Splattered brains all over my dashboard. Try me and see if I won’t mind cleaning that up. I’ve got the rags in my trunk.”
“You are something else,” he says, shaking his head. “You are one crazy-ass dude. I don’t know what you think you’ve got on me, but I’m not playing with you.”
I growl like a beast, my patience lost. My hand clamps down on the back of his neck, and I slam his face forward against the dashboard.
Twice.
Just to make sure he understands.
He sits back up covering his nose and mouth, tears wetting his eyes. “You better not have broken my nose!”
“The contact. Last time I’m asking you.”
“Alright… alright… he’s saved under Bass.”
“Bass?! As in Henry Bass?”