The Take Read online

  The

  Take

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  The Take

  PRODIGY GOLD BOOKS | PHILADELPHIA * LOS ANGELES

  For L'kia Nicole Brooks | (1979-1999)

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  EPILOGUE

  The Take

  L. Brown

  PRODIGY GOLD BOOKS

  PHILADELPHIA * LOS ANGELES

  THE TAKE

  A Prodigy Gold Book

  Prodigy Gold E-book edition/November 2017

  Prodigy Gold Paperback edition/November 2017

  Copyright (c) 2018 by L. Brown

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2017944630

  Website: http://www.prodigygoldbooks.com

  Author's e-mail: [email protected]

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, event, business, organization, or locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Names, characters, place, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-939665-24-9

  Published simultaneously in the US and Canada

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  For L'kia Nicole Brooks

  (1979-1999)

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  IF I WERE AN ISLAND this page would be irrelevant, but as you (my esteemed readers) see, it's here, so let the praise commence.

  My wonderful family, you came through for me in my darkest moment and blessed me with the mental wherewithal to get back to the light.

  My editor, Locksie Locks, I call you "Mum" for your English heritage, but your support on a professional and personal level is infinitely nurturing. My literary siblings (Envy Red, Kristofer Clarke, Leonard Anderson, English Ruler, Pernitha Tinsley), you all dragged me into your lives and never let me go professionally or personally; you loved me in ways only family can and taught me the definition of friendship, proving I am not the wordsmith that I like to think I am considering I've been defining friend wrong my whole life.

  It's odd to thank a barber, but I must thank Vergil Austin, as he has supported every novel that I've written; and, every time that I sit in his chair I always get up a tad wiser. Thanks for the words of wisdom.

  Devone "Reds" Johnson, thanks for the inside job, bro. One day we'll laugh about allowing me to use your...well, it wouldn't be an inside job if I exposed it here. Frankie "ChukTizzy" Taylor you read these words when they were chicken scratch in a notebook and want to play, Naim Butler, in the movie adaptation. Thanks for dragging me to the gym to work out to clear my head. I'm down thirty pounds and feeling good because of your help, persistence, and dedication to my physique goals. Jermaine Coleman, Perry Williams, Kaseem Clark, Lamont Fleming, Tye Davis, Juma Sampson, Aree Toulson thanks for helping me shape my main character into the man that he is.

  Kisha Green, what a way to pick me up by answering all of my questions along the way to completing this project; thank you, again.

  As I wrote this novel, I taught a literary workshop to some men in prison, The Fort Dix Six: Sage, Craig P, Six Pack, Rob, Woo, and H. Helping you, helped me, as every class that I prepared for you, I learned a lesson of my own while researching. You will all be grand authors one day soon.

  Lastly, I must thank my initial critiquers and reviewers. I needed your fierce feedback. I laughed, I kicked, I screamed, I grew, and now the readers are blessed.

  The

  Take

  PROLOGUE

  “EVERYBODY! GET DOWN on the ground!” Feeq blurted as he and Reem moved swiftly from the vestibule into the lobby of the brick and mortar bank.

  The frantic bank employees and customers were froze in shock when the two masked men entered the bank with weapons drawn and pointed, making threatening demands for everyone to get down on the floor with their hands in sight.

  They complied.

  “Think about your lives. Think about your families. Stay down, and you’ll make it home to see them another night. We’re here for the bank’s money. This will be over in a matter of minutes,” Reem stated calmly.

  They moved quickly to gain control of the occupants of the old-fashioned bank. Reem towered over the innocent victims, incessantly instructing them to remain on the floor, facedown. He felt in control and powerful as his adrenaline started to rush.

  Feeq vaulted over the teller’s station like an Olympic superstar clearing hurdles in a two hundred meter dash. The two tellers were already lying, flat faced, on the floor. One was a young black male; the other a middle-aged white woman. The dude was no more than thirty years old. He was trembling and what sounded like sobbing was coming from his direction in muffled sniffles.

  Feeq told the tellers to get up from the floor and open the drawers and tellers’ safes. To his surprise, the male teller didn’t budge. He remained on the floor, and Feeq was now sure he was crying because he was shaking with revulsion. For a second, Feeq nearly snapped on him, but he decided to let him be.

  After raising the large .45 Smith and Wesson to the female teller’s face, Feeq demanded, “Open the drawers and safes! No dye-packs, no bait-bills, and no fucking alarms!”

  Her eyes were the size of half-dollars. She cringed as she peered through her thin, wire-framed glasses, down the barrel of death. It was hard for her fog-filled mind to register the blabber coming from the uncovered mouth behind the dark mask. Common sense told her to open the drawers and safes, so she did.

  After opening them, she took a step back. Without being told to, she dropped back down and sank her face into the carpet. Feeq, floundering with the stacks of bills, quickly stuffed the gym bag.

  He leaped back over the station and into the lobby.

  “Where’s the manager?” he shouted to the frightened group lying on the open floor.

  A middle-aged white woman rose to her knees, as Feeq slid the bag filled with money toward Reem. He was sitting at one of the desks on the open floor and observing the victims. Feeq caught the empty bag Reem threw back to him in mid-air.

  “Are you the manager?” Feeq asked the woman after the bag exchange.

  She nodded and began to say something, but, before she could utter a word, he grasped a handful of her shoulder-length blond hair. She shrieked from the pain and succumbed to his authority.

  Her frail body flew across the lobby. She was attempting to keep up with her hair as he violently dragged her by it across the bank. She was sure that she knew where he was taking her. Actually, she was as anxious as him to get there, so that it could all be over with.

  The manager twirled the nozzle on the vault’s lock several times. Thoughts of her family were glued in her head: Kevin, Katie, and Damon—her son
, daughter, and husband. Will I ever see them again? Are they safe? She nearly broke from the fear of the thought of never seeing them again.

  Her violent quaking interfered with her ability to concentrate, so she spun the lock’s nozzle past its correct numbers several times. Feeq was excited and was doing a little trembling of his own.

  “Relax,” he calmly told her. “No one is going to get hurt. This will all be over in a few seconds. Now take your time and open the vault.”

  “Okay. Just don’t hurt anyone, please,” she pleaded.

  “Do you have kids?” he asked her. She nodded. “Think about your kids.”

  That’s exactly what I’ve been doing, she thought sarcastically. Finally, there was a series of clicks followed by a hydraulic hiss of air. The vault’s door slowly swung open. Feeq’s eyes widened, filling the capacity of the holes in the ski mask he donned. For a moment, maybe two, he was paralyzed by the sight of the stacks of dead presidents. Benjee stared at him.

  One corner of his mouth curved upward, forming a crooked, toothless grin as he looked at his reward. The manager let out a sigh of relief. Her reward felt even greater—at least, to her anyway. He had finally let go of her hair.

  CHAPTER 1

  DARK CLOUDS IMPRISONED the sun and stripped the morning brightness from the sky. Darkness invaded the ceiling of the city of Philly. Rain fell from the steel curtain, pouring over the windshield of the stolen Dodge Caravan.

  Sitting behind the wheel of the stolen van, Donnie spoke into the Boost mobile phone, using the phone’s chirp feature.

  “Yo! Y’all have been in there over three minutes,” he said to Reem through the airwaves. “I’m pulling up out front right now. Let’s go!” He snapped the phone closed after a chattered response from Reem on the other end.

  Moments later, just as Donnie pulled the van into the plaza’s parking lot, Reem and Feeq exited the double doors of the bank. They were outside the PNC Bank, at the northeast exit. The branch was a freestanding bank with a drive-through lane. It was surrounded by big-box retail stores: Walmart, Best Buy, Home Depot, and Burlington Coat Factory.

  None of the early morning commuters noticed them as they trotted toward the dented, navy-blue minivan. Donnie wore a devilish grin on his face as he watched his boys approach with bags of money. They hopped in. Feeq was in the passenger seat, and Reem was in the rear passenger compartment. The van skidded into motion before they managed to shut their doors. They ripped their masks off once they were out the scope of the overhead cameras.

  “We fucking did it!” Reem shouted excitedly from the back of the van.

  They all shouted and celebrated, sharing the same exalted feeling. The excitement and adrenaline could be felt. It traveled through the van like a current.

  They cruised at a normal pace, stopping at all lights for the next several minutes to blend in with traffic. Getting to the next point undetected was crucial, so they could switch cars before the van became hot. The getaway was a stealthy procedure, so they had to attract little attention.

  In the distance up ahead, red and blue-bubbled lights illuminated the streets. The deafening sirens hollered angrily as the police cars scurried up the wet tarmac.

  “Sit back, y’all. Sit back!” Donnie panicked.

  Feeq and Donnie sat up straight in their seats up front, while Reem lay stretched across the rear seat. He stared down at the bags containing the money and wondered how much they were getting away with.

  Donnie gripped the steering wheel with both hands perspiring from being inside the leather gloves. Two police cars raced past them without so much as a head turn. Donnie made a sharp right turn, and the screaming sirens became faint. He drove another half block before whipping into a deserted driveway, reaching the switch point.

  They hurried out the van but tried to appear as calm and normal as possible. Reem carried the two stuffed bags to the switch car. Feeq jumped in the driver’s seat of a taupe-grey Ford Expedition. The other two climbed in and laid in the back to make it appear like Feeq was the truck’s sole occupant. Then, they disappeared into traffic.

  Once they arrived at home, they dumped the bags on the floor. Donnie and Reem’s eyes were the size of quarters at the sight of the mountain of money. Although this was their first time committing a bank robbery, Feeq remained nonchalant. The thirty-one-year-old had six years on the other two. He shared in their excitement, but he was doing a good job disguising it.

  Feeq had been at this financial stage before. Years ago, he had run several coke houses, which moved a few ounces a day. Not a lot, but a few ounces a day started to add up when he accumulated his money. But, since what goes up must come down and after being shot five times in a botched robbery of some Jamaicans, Feeq had never bounced back until then.

  Feeq sat on the cracked black leather couch, rolling some weed in a Dutch. They were in the basement of Reem’s grandmother’s house. If she had been aware of what they were up to in the basement, she would’ve had a fit. They’d have to break Grams off a nice check—even then; they’d never hear the end of her mouth. Grams wouldn’t call the cops, though. She was old school, and calling the cops wasn’t her forte, but getting a check was.

  Reem looked at Feeq and noticed that the Dutch was half gone.

  “Yo! Pass the fucking weed, man!” he snapped with a smirk on his face.

  “Roll some more Dutches up,” Donnie told Feeq.

  “What the fuck I look like? Cousin E?” he responded.

  They all shared a laugh, but Feeq reached in his pocket hanging on the armrest of the couch and grabbed some more Dutches.

  While Feeq rolled the weed, Reem and Donnie were crouched on the floor, separating the money and getting rid of all the bank’s wrappers that banded the stacks of bills. From the looks of things, they estimated that they had come up, at least, a hundred thousand. Not bad for the first take.

  Reem took a long drag of the Dutch and aspirated, “Yo! Count it out in stacks of thousands and put them to the side.” He spoke in a pursy tone, trying to hold the weed smoke in.

  “Twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-hundred,” Donnie counted a stack of twenties out loud.

  “Man, you’re going to be all damn day counting that shit like that!” Feeq snapped on Donnie, who was his nephew. “Fifty twenties is a stack, so count them out like that!”

  “We already got a bunch of them over here that had the wrappers with the amounts on them, so they don’t need to be counted,” Reem said.

  As Feeq looked at the money, a grin finally surfaced on his face. “Y’all little niggas ain’t gonna know how to act now that y’all got a little paper.”

  “We been getting money,” Donnie said.

  “Please, you don’t even know how to count the paper, talking ‘bout you been getting it.” Feeq shook his head, continuing to clown his nephew.

  Reem took another puff of the weed. “We’re going to the auction and shopping tomorrow.”

  “See what I mean?” Feeq responded flatly, shaking his head again.

  “We’re gonna get some more work, too.” Donnie looked at Reem. “Flood the block,” he added with excitement.

  “Yeah, this is just the beginning,” Reem agreed, looking at his right-hand man with a Broadway smile spread across his face. “Your new nickname is Donnie Schemes.”

  Inside the dull white holding cell, located inside the Curran-Fromhold Correctional Facility, Kevin “Ghost” Rines was growing more and more impatient. He was moments away from being released from CFCF. The female guard stationed behind the off-white tile counter was typing on the prison’s computer. She had noticed Ghost’s impatience. She had observed him neglect the ridged-steel benches. Instead, he was pacing back and forth inside the eight by ten cage.

  Periodically, he’d pause at the locked sliding door and glare through the thick Plexiglas with a cold stare in his dark brown eyes. His almond-shaped eyes revealed more than the anxiousness and excitement of someone being released back into society.

  Ghost
, who was five feet nine inches, had a scrawny frame. He weighed no more than 150 pounds. At twenty-six, his light complexion and light facial hair gave him a baby face. He still could pass for twenty, maybe twenty-one. If looks could kill, he wouldn’t be doing any murdering.

  But his eyes were his most intimidating feature. Along with the constant screw face, his eyes beamed corruption. Beyond them was a young man bearing lots of pain. The look he gave the female correctional officer made her uneasy, so she kept her gaze fixed on the computer screen.

  “Lazy bitch is probably on that Facebook or Twitter shit,” Ghost mumbled to himself. “She needs to get me the fuck outta here.”

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t her call to let him out. They both were waiting for the chubby sergeant to come and complete the standard release procedure, which included a bunch of biological questions like name, D.O.B., address, social security number, and all that bullshit, to make sure they weren’t releasing the wrong person. Despite all that, they still let the wrong people go all the time.

  Ghost finally took a seat on the cold bench and leaned his head against the cement block wall behind him. Although he was only down for six months, the skid bid had felt like six years spent in the manmade fortress. Tucking his arms inside his blue prison shirt to escape the frigid, ventilated air, he let out a deep sigh and drifted off, recalling the memories that had placed him in this box to begin with.

  June 2nd

  “Damn, Ghost! You’re high as shit,” Donnie told Ghost as he looked at his dumbfounded facial expression.

  “I ain’t even feeling it like that,” he responded with a slur.

  A few hours ago, Ghost had dumped eight Xanax and sipped an ounce of purple syrup containing Phenergan and Codeine. For some reason, when taking xanies and syrup, people always appeared higher to others than they actually felt.