[short story] The Wrath of Cain

Two weeks since The Monday After Father's Day, Cain leans into his hunger for revenge. With a team at his disposal, a staggering number of bodies fall in the Nation's Capital, but to what end?

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The Wrath of Cain

Two Weeks Later

“Mr. Darr–...sorry, sir. Mr. Davidson, Mink is in position across the street. Rabbit and Tank pulled up a few minutes ago. Now, we’re just waiting for them to start recording.”

I swear that nigga sounded like he should be hosting the Quiet Storm on ninety-two Q. From the back seat of a burgundy Suburban, with blacked out windows, I kept my gaze focused on the hill across from where we sat. We were parked on the D.C. side of Suitland Parkway, and though I couldn’t see the eventual target that resided in Maryland, that would change real soon.

“Good money, Turks. You know what to do,” I replied, before ending the call.

It had been two full weeks since someone put a spade in the dirt and disturbed a dead man. In the past six days, he, or better I, had unleashed a level of chaos D.C. hadn’t seen in over forty years. Despite the gentrification, Nougat City, because it damn sure wasn’t chocolate anymore, still exported violence. But the timing and perceived randomness I wrought fanned the flames of a fierce anxiety.

And I wasn’t done yet.

Pop Ingram, the only man I’ve ever taken orders from who wasn’t a blood elder, came through with very little convincing. After our conversation, he sent me ten A1 soldiers from Houston, some of whom had military backgrounds. Combined with the intel Lyneé provided, seventeen bodies were turned cold over four hits.

Tonight made the fifth, and the first I’d be taking part in. 

Any moment now, we were pulling the plug on a rapper and his crew, who were shooting a music video. The so-called leader of this ragtag bunch was who I truly wanted, because he was the one said to have put his hands around my babygirl’s throat. That nigga, had to see me personally. His boy, Mr. Switches for Darringers, just provided a bonus opportunity.

While we waited, I stared across at the wooded area as the sound of crickets, owls, and cars doing twenty-plus miles over the speed limit laid the score. A summer storm earlier in the day cut the brimstone out of the night sky, making the evening bearable. The coolness of the glass argued with a mirthless breeze as the beginnings of the faint sound of music reached my ears. Maybe a minute or so later, four choreographed shots wiped out the light at the top of the hill. 

“Let’s roll,” I said, as the big Chevy roared to life.

I further rolled down the back window as we crossed four lanes of traffic and crept up. As we drew closer, screams of panic from an executioner's song gradually decreased in volume. The sound of intermittent suppressed rounds tore through the night, silencing them forever. From earlier reports, there were at least twenty people standing at the back of the apartment building. By the time the truck breached the tree line and we pulled into the alley, only two remained.

Floodlights kicked on and blinded the pair who stood side-by-side on the steps. The lumens also provided a glimpse of two of the four men responsible for the slew of bodies laid out on the cement and grassy hill. Rabbit and Turks were a menacing ass duo dressed in all black like the omen. With MP5s aimed straight ahead, they stalked forward in tandem.

Tank, who jogged past the Suburban, after sliding a van door shut, moved to a video camera that had a cellphone jerry-rigged to it. The phone was live streaming to an app and was swept from left to right, showcasing eleven dead bodies on the ground, all holding guns they never got a chance to fire. Posing asses.

I stepped over a man whose eyes locked on mine when I passed, but who didn’t possess the soul to blink again. Steps later, Bully, my driver for tonight, walked ahead of me and tapped Tank on the shoulder. On cue, the video camera was powered down, but the livestream kept recording.

I stood to Tank’s right, off camera, and stared silently at the two men. Confusion and terror forced wild eyes to bounce back and forth between the deceased, masked men with night optics & submachine guns, and my outline.

“What the fuck, moe!? Who are you!?” Z-Baby, the leader of Zenith Street Mob spat, with his arm shielding his eyes from the light. 

Ignoring him, I slipped earplugs in and grinned as the one named KillSwitch looked to be on the verge of a panic attack. My continued silence was interrupted by the intro to KillSwitch’s song blaring through the portable speakers Rabbit and Turks set near the steps before walking away. The pair jumped at the intensity of the noise, covering their ears, and I pressed stop on the audio.

“Fuck! Nigga, do you know where you are!? Do you know who I am!?”

At my signal, Tank killed the livestream. I stepped directly in the path of the floodlights and walked toward the steps. Rabbit and Turks advanced from either side without prompting, but I waved them off. Ten feet from the pair, Z-Baby grinned and pulled the Glock thirty from his waistband. A sniper round pierced his gun hand before it made it to navel height.

The rapper with the tough gun bars ducked down and looked over at his chief in horror while the other man writhed on the ground in pain. The scream of pain melded with a string of curses from the high-caliber round.

“Get him up,” I barked at the man who still possessed all ten of his fingers. “Listen, I know that shit hurt, but I have a couple of questions for you two. Whoever can give me what I need might just live to see tomorrow.”

I started and stopped KillSwitch’s track repeatedly, before letting that awful shit play. Once it got to the switches for Darringers line, I backed it up and played the bar again. Then again, then again, until recognition disfigured the rapper’s face. We locked eyes, I nodded, then he hastily backed away from his boy.

“Who’s looking for me?” I asked.

“Look, O.G. Come on man, we ain’t no snitches,” the one not in pain replied.

“You know what? I respect that. Let’s pivot. What order were y’all given that led to somebody putting their hands on my daughter? And more importantly,” I stepped up on the step, causing them both to stumble backward. “Is the motherfucker still breathing?”

Anyone with half a brain would have pointed to one of the bodies already on the ground. But bravado and ego know no bounds in the present day.

“Wait! You? Aw shit! You’re Cain Darringer?” The man who held what was left of his bleeding hand asked with a maniacal laugh. “You the smart nigga, you ain’t no killa. We got the word. You ain’t gonna do shit, that’s why you got these shooters doing all your heavy lifting. You wouldn’t last a day on the southside by yourself. Ol’pretty boy ass.”

“Yeah? That’s what you heard, huh?”

I touched my forehead to his and could smell the skunk weed he partook in seeping from his pores. I had heard that pretty boy shit since elementary school. Still hated it.

“Yeah, pretty boy. The initial question came from behind the walls. But when they found a real stepper who could deliver, Marshall hit me directly and greenlit my crew to snatch your daughter and smoke you out. You shoulda seen the look in that pretty bitches face when I…”

I pulled the gun from my waist and knocked teeth out of his mouth, I hit him so hard. In an instant, all of that adrenaline-fueled bravado dissipated. The bloody hand, missing fingers, went to his mouth, while the other covered them both. This time, I helped him up and backed him into the nearby railing. When cold steel was forced in-between his lips, the stench of his bowels releasing polluted our shared air.

“You know, a derringer, spelled with an E, not an A, was created in the 1820s. The original was a small, one-shot pistol. Easily concealed, but it was a small caliber, so you needed to get up close for maximum effect. Now, I much like the original, believe in maximum effects. So I believe in getting up close, but I prefer something more reliable. With more power.”

I pressed the barrel of my Colt 1911 further into his mouth, making his eyes bulge, while he gagged.

“Marshall gave you bad intel. While I always believed in letting hitters do their job, anytime it was called for, I never hesitated to get my hands dirty. See, I was born and raised in Tamworth Terrace, youngin. I helped lay the foundation in parts of Southeast D.C. you wouldn’t have lasted a week in.” 

Muffled pleas mirrored the frenetic energy I felt coursing through me. Though my exterior remained calm, the tremor in my voice foretold the inevitable. And I was done fighting it.

“Bamma ass nigga, I am the southside. And putting your hands on my babygirl got you a one-way Greyhound ticket across the river Styx. Tell every single one of your ancestors to watch their backs when I get there.”

I racked the slide, squeezed the trigger, and left him dangling backward over the railing. Without a second thought, I turned in MC Dipshit’s direction, who somehow experienced a reverse tan, and told him to give me all the information he had on everything.

With last night’s incident in Oxon Royal, the death toll from the recent barrage of shootings in the D.C. area over the last week stands at thirty. Although DCPD and now the Prince George’s County Police Department have not officially linked all the events together, certain elements are eerily similar.

I watched the morning News on NBC4 as the anchor threw the story to their reporter out in the field. The young man stood with crime tape to his back, pointing to select locations where evidence markers could be seen in the distance. Detectives, officers, and techs worked the scene as he told of the brutal murder scene. They wouldn’t find much other than spent shell casings and dried blood, but that didn’t alleviate my anxiety.

Not of being caught, but being stopped.

“When will this be done?”

I jumped at the sound of Marian’s voice, turning to find her walking into the TV room with a coffee cup in her hand.

“Hey babe. I was going to bring a cup up to your room in a few. I came downstairs so as not to wake you.”

The silence that hung in the air called my eyes to hers, and what I found was a deep-seated concern. I braced for what I expected was the pleading or ultimatum that hadn’t happened before now. Because, to her credit, she had yet to question or chastise the late nights I kept recently. The same with how much time I spent isolated in my home office or when I left at random times throughout the day for hours on end.

“Cain, baby, I’m worried…about you? What is the endgame to this?”

She raised her hand toward the seventy-two-inch television on the wall. On the screen was the location of the five shootings and the number of persons murdered at each. When Detective Douglas Arnold came on the screen, addressing a reporter, I turned it off.

“Babe,” I started, then stopped. “Not much longer,” I lied, and squeezed her hand reassuringly.

Truth be told, I didn’t know the answer to that question, but it shouldn’t be much longer. With the information I got last night, I was playing a waiting game to find out who this Marshall character was, and where he laid his head. The faster I got my hands on that, the faster I could bury all of this. But until then, my family wasn’t safe. Therefore, neither was he nor anyone involved.

I resigned myself to thinking that the mama bear in my wife wanted some get back for what happened to our family. That was the only reason my favorite, gorgeous HBCU president initially allowed me to do what I did. But what would be her breaking point? She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek, then stood to her feet.

“Cain, I’m trusting you with me, with us, like I always have.”

I looked at her curiously, “Of course, babe. Forever and always, this is my priority,” I said, and moved my hand between us.”

“Make certain, you bring the man I love back to me.”

When she turned and walked off, I stared at the vacant entryway. It wasn’t an ultimatum per se, but she damn sure pushed the button on a running clock. Message received.