The Last Car

I

The beautiful brunette prances back and forth along the desolate corridor of the abandoned warehouse, trying to ignore the loud smacking noise coming from a nearby room. Each time the smacking noise occurs, loud screams, cries and pleas fill the air and causes her to bite down on her bottom lip. Several times she approaches the door, reaches out to twist the knob and enter the room, but each time she suddenly stumps her feet and walks away.

As she walks over and gazes outside the window, she catches her reflection.

The sight of her shinny brown hair hanging below her shoulders, soft hazel eyes, full lips, almond shaped eyes and small nose makes her frown, reminding her how much she hated her mousy little girl look. At least she was thankful for her 36 inch breast, sharp curvy waist and thighs, small ankles and feet, fitting so nicely in her mini skirt and 2½ inch pumps which definitely stood against regulations, but as an undercover field operative, she could always claim it was part of the job.

The door to the room swings opens and she catches sight of the tall lanky man making his way to the bathroom across the hall.

She quickly follows him, pushes the door open, and enters the men's bathroom to find him bent over a sink, splashing cold water on his face.

"I take it you haven't broken him yet," she asks, folding her arms.

"Nah, but I'm close, real close, I'd say any minute now," the man answers, snatching a paper towel to dry his face.

"And suppose he doesn't tell you?"

"Then I'll just have to try a little harder."

"This doesn't make sense Monty; you've been at it for almost two hours now."

"I don't give a damn if it takes nine hours, that bastard's gonna tell me every thing I want to know."

"I took a peek at him, he looks pretty bad. I think he needs a doctor."

"If that prick doesn't tell me what I want to know, he's gonna need a mortician," the tall man grumbles.

"Respectfully sir, I think this is ethically and morally wrong, I don't think the general public, not to mention the guys up top are going to appreciate what you're doing in there."

"What I'm doing in there," the man frowns and steps back as if to scan the woman before him. "Listen up kid, I accepted you as a partner. I took you on because I saw something in you. Call it grit, call it gristle, or call it passion, but whatever it is, I believed you had it, so in spite of this babe-in-the-woods routine you're running on me, I'm gonna give you a little tip."

He withdraws and lights a cigarette, then takes a puff before continuing. "A long time ago, probably before your father was born, the bureau's been fighting the bad guys. From Hoover, to Purvis to Ness, our guys put the work in. At first it was rough and slow going, but eventually we caught on and learned to play the game. You wanna know what they learned," he never waited for her response, "they learned that you can't bring a pea-shooter to a Goddamn gunfight," he barks, his voice echoing about the walls.

"The bad guys had all the advantages, they had superior gunfire, they had superior transportation and most of all, they operated above, below, around the rules, but like I said, we caught on and took their asses down."

"That may be true, but it doesn't change the fact that if we operate like them, operating above, below and around the rules, then what makes us any different from them," she challenges. "I mean we're in an abandon warehouse in the middle of nowhere. I thought we were above all this."

His head slowly recoiles back in response, "You disappoint me agent, I would've thought you'd figured that one out on your own. He takes another long puff from his cigarette. "We're the good guys, it's guys like us that put our necks on the line when no one else will, we're the guys who make it possible for the general public to go about their business without having to look over their Goddamn shoulders, in other words, we protect them from the bad guys."

"But Mon..."

"That's enough kid, I've heard your piece, I was out here kicking ass when you were too young to wipe the shit from yours, so don't lecture me. Maybe one day when you're the senior partner you can call the shots, but with that attitude, I serious doubt it. It comes down to this, we're the good guys and there's a bad in there," he motions his hand toward the door, "with info that can help us end this case and take them down, so either you're with this or not. "He took a quick puff on his cigarette, before continuing, "Like I said, I thought you had grit, I thought you had some fire, I thought you wanted to make a difference, but if you can't handle this, then go out in the car and watch my back. That ought to help your uh...sensitive nature," he flicked his cigarette and watched tiny sparks scatter as it crashes into the wall. "I got work to do," he snaps and leaves the bathroom.

The String sat in the vehicle for five minutes before her eyes grew heavy and slumber descends upon here. Her mind drifts rapidly as she concentrates on her senior partner's advice and his willingness to bend the rules. Should she turn him in, accept stigmatism as a rat, play this game of hypocrisy, or perhaps it was time to contemplate another line of work?

The face of her cancer stricken father floods her mind, followed by visions of how her mother went bankrupt trying to pay for the overwhelming cost of medical treatment, and now her mother suffering from the same dreaded disease, and also sucking away everything she owed to pay for quality healthcare.

These thoughts and visions flashing through her mind making her ask a most pertinent question. How could she truly make a difference when the good guys she proposed to serve were just as ruthless, cutthroat, and dirty as the bad guys they fought to arrest and incarcerate?" She grappled and fought with these thoughts as she fell into slumber.

The sound of gunshots jars the young agent back to consciousness. Shaking her head vigorously to focus her vision and concentrate her thoughts, she jumps out the car, draws her handgun, and races toward the warehouse door.

Her heels cause her to stumble on the gravel covered driveway, just as the warehouse door swings open and a man carrying a weapon dashes out.

"Hold it, don't move," she shouts.

The man never hesitates to stop and open fire, before his eyes can adjust to the shadowy darkness surrounding the facility. The young agent aims her weapon and fires. The gun men staggers back, then attempts to run a few feet before he drops on his face.

Stringer races over, checks the wounded man, and discovers he's showing no vital signs. With the immediate threat removed, she scans the area for anyone else; she then makes her way to the warehouse. Once again she reaches the door, but this time it swings open and her partner Monty staggers out holding his stomach, before falling on his face.

String rolls him over on his back and quickly discovers his blood soaked shirt.

"Monty...what the hell happened in there?"

"What the hell happened out here is...a...better...question," the badly injured man labors to turn the question."

String swallows hard and then cries, "I...I fucked up Monty, I fucked up big time."

"Doesn't matter...," he cuts her off, then began coughing up blood. "Chalk one up for the bad guys."

"Holly shit...Monty, I'm so sorry, I'm calling the medics."

"No...no...no time, my card is punched. Listen up kid...this shit's gonna look...bad, real bad, so, so pay attention, this might be your only chance to save your...ca...career."

He coughs up more blood as he struggles to hold on to his rapidly shrinking window of life. "We...got here at about 8:15, I instructed you to stay outside while I went...wen...went inside. You heard gunshots, and let the story play out from there. You...you, you were never inside...hear me...you never came inside, you hear me...kid?"

"I hear you Monty," she answers as her voice cracking.

"One more thi...thing, check the trunk of his..." he cries, as his eyes began to roll to the back of his head.

II

On any given day, New York's Pennsylvania Station is a hustling, bustling hub of traveling humanity, severing over 300,000, passengers, and the most used traveling train station in the United States. It's grand Beaux-Arts style architecture reflects the majestic technological innovations as envisioned by the creators of this colossal project.

In the 1960's the iconic complex fell under controversial scrutiny when the decision made to demolish and rebuild the grand old structure, as many considered this an act of vandalism.

After reconstruction, and the addition of Madison Square Garden complex, which sits above it, many of the original landmark Roman age elegance were shipped to sites across the city, state and country, and only two original eagle ornaments remain at the sight.

In spite of the fact that the station continues to attract hundreds of thousands of riders each day, it remains a highly criticized and controversial landmark.

Orlando Santana casually strolls through the terminal with a gym bag draped over his broad shoulders. Golden honey colored Timberland boots, a heavy gold metallic unbuckled belt dangles above the zipper of his loose fitting baggy black jeans, sagging below his wasp-like waist, a tightly ribbed white wife beater, stretched about his hard muscular chest, along with a gold nugget chain are displayed through the opening of his soft black calf leather jacket.

His eyes quickly dart about the train station, totally focused on his surroundings.

Two elderly women maneuver from his path as if he carries a disease and he smiles at their discomfort, realizing how intimidating his mere presence presents to other people.

Another woman perhaps in her late thirties passes him by, stealing a glance at his deep dark chocolate brown chest. Flashing his boyishly handsome smile, he nods in her direction, then drops his bag on the ground, leans back, places his back and his foot up against a pillar behind him, all the while continuing to scan through the large crowds of travelers in the station.

The smell of hot pizza fills his nostrils, and causes his stomach to growl in hunger. Ignoring his urge to eat, he glances down the tracks, then down at his watch. According to the schedule, the train should arrive at any moment, a train he could not afford to miss.

Taking a long deep sigh of relief, he glances about once again, as if trying to capture every sight in his mind, as he wonders, will this be the last time, he'll ever see the city of his birth. Fighting the urge to smoke a cigarette, his mind drifts back to a little over twenty four hours ago, when the thought of leaving the only home he's ever known, unthinkable.

Orlando slowly pulls his Lexus S550 curb side, and then answers his cell phone.

He smiles easy, seeing the name on his caller ID, but asks anyway, "Yo who's spittin"

"Ace baby, what's up Duce," the voice answers in code, letting him know the voice belongs to Raheem Champion, head of the East River Outlaws, a notorious drug gang, and his good friend.

"I just got here, bout to go up now," Orlando answers.

"Good, tell Ladonna moms wants her to pick up Tomika from school tomorrow."

"Will do homie," Orlando replies.

"So where you guys hangin tonight?"

"She wants to go dancing, so I'm taking her to 'Night Crawlers', grab something to eat and go back to..."

"Alright that's enough info," both men laugh in response.

"Yo Duce I got'ta tell ya, when you first told me about you and my little sis, I had my doubts. Don't get me wrong, you mad cool with me, but you're my number one, and I was worried about a conflict of interest, especially with my sister's attitude and shit. Not many Ni**er's can hold a chick like her down, but I can see shit's working with you two. Of course you realize, if you knock her up, there's a shotgun wedding in your future."

Orlando laughs loudly, but fully understood Raheem's close family ties, and if he didn't do right by his sister, he'd have to deal with the family's wrath, even if he was the second in command of the gang.

"Yo dog don't sweat that shit, your sister's got my heart, and she don't need a kid or a ring to get that."

"Yeah, yeah, alright enough with that mushy shit, holler at me in morning, before your feet hit the concrete."

"Will do son, we out?"

"Yeah Ace's out," Raheem answers.

"Duce's wild baby," Orlando fires back, and ends the call.

He steps out into the cool night air, glances up at the old five-story tenement building, then up and down the street. He waves to the look-out-kids strategically placed on the either corner and along the block before trotting up the staircase.

A metal door swings open and a overweight kid wearing a baseball cap smiles as he approaches. "Wha'd up Duce?"

"Everything's 'Ice and cheese'," he answers with a fist bump, "All quiet on the front?"

"Ain't no muthafuckas around here looking to commit suicide," the kid snaps.

"You crazy son," Orlando laughs, playfully nudging the boy's head with his open palm.

As he steps into the corridor, the kid asks, "Yo you came to pick up Ladonna?"

Orlando stops in his tracks and gazes seriously at the kid, "Is that your business?"

"Nah Duce I was just..."

"Watching out, that's your job," the smooth dark chocolate man answers earnestly.

"Yo Duce I didn't mean anything you know."

"That shit is privileged info, remember son, you're a trouper, a soldier, and I'm a general. In this army, troupes don't inquire about shit over their head, you got that son?"

The young man swallows hard and answers nervously, "Yeah, I understand."

"Good, don't make me repeat that shit again, that's the first and only warning you're gonna receive."

The young man at the door glances up at another kid, guarding the first floor stairwell, and then looks down, knowing he's crossed a dangerous line.

Orlando walks up to the other kid and scans him from head to toe as if inspecting him. "What were you doing behind the staircase?"

"Notthin Duce, I heard you talking, so I figured shit was cool."

"You figured shit was cool huh, you think I'm stupid, I see that bitch in the corner. Now I know shit gets boring down here, but that's your job and you get paid well for it and anytime you feel like you'd like another job, there's plenty positions at Mickey Dee's flipping burgers, now get that bitch out of here and you're lucky I wasn't Ace. Knowing him, he'd slammed your fuckin hands in his car door, yeah I seen him do it, so step up or step the fuck off."

He cleverly spies the frightened look on both faces of the young men as he trots upstairs. Taking long strides, and using his athletic agility, the six foot three inch man runs up five flights of stairs.

Before he could knock, the door swings open and a very tall kid wearing long dreadlocks steps aside and allowing him entrance. "What's up Duce." The kid asks in a deep husky voice.

"Ain't no thang son, where she at?"

"Yeah she's in the back, Cheyenne's finishing her hair."

"Damn I thought she said she was ready," Orlando snaps.

"I'll be ready in a minute, don't be so impatient," a high pitch voice calls from a nearby room.

"Alright now, hurry up, I'm hungry," he shouts out.

"So what's up Duce, ain't seen you around here for a bit," the tall kid asks.

"Yeah so I noticed," Orlando, snaps, staring intently at the kid.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means your people are lax and your operation looks sloppy. Your guards and look-out-crew didn't see me until I was right on them, maybe because they're spending time fucking little neighborhood hoes. You need to check that shit son."

"Oh shit, I didn't know that."

"That's what I'm talkin bout homie, that's some shit you should know. Now I want them two downstairs docked a days pay and if I see some shit like that again, all you muthas can look forward to transfers, you hear me dawg. You're the captain of this site, so you're responsible."

"I hear you Duce, I'll take care of it."

"I suggest you do, remember, your soldiers are pawns, you're a knight in this game, so if you can't handle your spot on the board..."

"Oh damn there you go again with that chess, card game game shit, Ni**er please, ya'll just some drug dealing thugs," Ladonna snaps entering the room.

Orlando took his position in the gang very seriously. He was the queen, the most destructive piece on the board and second only to Raheem, the king. Anyone one who dared to mock or took their game philosophy lightly, stood on dangerous ground. His eyelids squint preparing to fire back harshly and then he saw her baby smooth coco brown skin, soft green eyes, shinny black curly hair far below her shoulders, full lips and awesome body, and whatever else in his mind faded to black.

"Watch yourself little lady, I'm talkin shop here," he scolds but softly.

"Yeah, yeah I know, queens to bishops, to knights and all that bullshit..."

"Ladonna chill, don't disrespect me in front of my troupes."

"Troupes, knights, aces, duces, ya'll some confused mutha..."

"Ladonna," he barks, cutting her off mid-sentence.

She casually strolls up to him and asks in a sexy voice, "Is this disrespectful," then tenderly kisses him on the lips.

Her soft full kiss send a jolt right through his cock and quickly melts away his anger.

With a sly grin on his face he offers, "Why don't you wait downstairs for me, I'll only be a minute?"

"Alright big poppa, take of business, but you better hurry up, I'm hungry too."

"Hey Ms. Ladonna, let me get that door for you," a burly kid asks, stepping forward, hoping he might avoid Orlando's oncoming tongue lashing.

"Ni**er I'm a grown ass woman, I got my bachelors and closing in on my masters, what makes you think I need your help Freight-train," she snaps rolling her eyes and stopping the young man in his tracks.

The feisty young woman walks to the door, snatches it open and suddenly she's sent across the room and down to the floor.

Orlando, Freight-train, and Deon watch in shock, trying to comprehend what they just saw, but when the two masked, armed gunmen enters the apartment, any and all questions were answered.

"On your knees motherfuckers," a short man hollers.

"What the fuck is this," Freight-train shouts.

"It's a robbery, asshole, and unless you want a hole in your head, get yer black ass on your knees now," the shorter gunman fires back.

"Ease up," Orlando shouts to Freight-train motioning for him not to reach for the handgun in his waist.

"That's right homeboy, tell your man to back his ass down before I lay his ass down," the shorter man shouts.

Orlando swallows hard, watches his woman on the floor, holding her bleeding head wound and fought the rage swelling inside him. Unfortunately now was not the time for a hot head. "Okay, I take it you guys came here for the money right?"

"No, we came here for your welfare checks, you 'Section 8' motherfucker, now shut the fuck up and get the cash."

"Oh you got jokes huh, alright Deon give it to him."

"But Duce, you know we can't..."

"Fuck that, give them what they want," Orlando orders as he carefully observes his enemies. He quickly concludes that the taller man was definitely the steadier of the two men, while the shorter man seems on the edge, nervous as if trying to prove himself, which clearly made him more dangerous.

Deon races over handing the taller man a large metal box.

The taller man peers inside and exclaims, "Yes that's a good man."

Orlando sighs deeply, he reasons that if they cooperate, these two would be on their way, and vows he'd fight another day, especially one without Ladonna. Everyone keeping a cool head was his biggest concern. He barely finishes the thought when a voice shouts out.