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  “I have to go down to the office to fill out some paperwork. I’m supposed to start my new position next week. I’m now Sergeant James Wolf.”

  “Well, congratulations. So what brings you to this neck of the woods?”

  “You, actually. I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of quick questions.”

  “Do we have to do it now? I’ve got ice cream in the cart for Scott and I don’t want it to melt.”

  “No problem, I’ll walk with you. This shouldn’t take long.” Detective Wolf fell in step with Mrs. Gooden. “You know, I felt horrible about coming to your house and stirring up those old memories. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

  “I understand that you were just doing your job, detective, but you’ll have to excuse John for the way he reacted. He has just been so angry at the world since Johnny was killed.”

  “I can’t say that I blame him. Losing a child is enough to turn even the most docile man into a powder keg. I know it had to be even harder on you.”

  Mrs. Gooden shook her head sadly. “You don’t know the half of it, detective. There are days when I go sit in Johnny’s room and just cry and cry.”

  “That bedroom is probably one of the few places you can go to still feel close to Johnny, huh?”

  “John says I turned it into my own personal shrine. I think I spend more time in there than I do my own bedroom.”

  “I figured as much, which is also what got me to wondering about a few things.”

  “Such as?”

  Detective Wolf stepped in front of the cart, causing her to stop. “Such as, if you spend so much time in Johnny’s room, how come you didn’t notice that the baseball cap had gone missing until I asked about it?”

  She seemed dumbfounded by the question. “I . . . I don’t know, I guess I just overlooked it.”

  “That’s possible, but I doubt it. You said at the house that it was one of the few things you had to remember Johnny by, so I don’t think you would’ve overlooked it disappearing. I think you orchestrated the cap’s disappearance, among other things.”

  “Detective, I’m not sure I like the direction this conversation is going in. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Mrs. Gooden tried to move around Wolf, but he blocked her path again.

  “The first instinct of a guilty party is always to flee.”

  “Detective Wolf, are you insinuating that I had a hand in my son’s death?”

  “No, but I’m willing to bet this shiny new badge of mine that you hired the assassin who avenged it.”

  “That’s impossible. Neither me nor my husband has any money, and whatever savings we had were used to pay for Johnny’s funeral. What could I use to pay an assassin when I barely have a dime to my name?”

  “A mother’s tears,” Detective Wolf replied. These had been Kahllah’s parting words and they provided him with the final clue he needed to unravel the mystery. “The suffering of a woman grieving for her child is what set this all in motion, not money. I can speculate on what happened, but I’d rather you just tell me the truth.”

  Mrs. Gooden slumped over the handle of her cart, as if she were a balloon that had just been deflated. When she looked up at Wolf, her face was streaked with tears. “I just couldn’t take it anymore,” she began. “Scott told us about him suspecting Father Fleming being involved with what happened to Johnny, but of course neither me nor John wanted to believe him . . . at least at first. As time went on I began to pay closer attention to that man. I saw how friendly he was with the other kids, and something in me clicked. I can’t say for sure what it was, other than a mother’s intuition, but I felt it in my soul that he had something to do with the disappearance of my son. I didn’t want to bring it to John and have him go out and get into trouble, so I prayed on it. I couldn’t stand the sight of Father Fleming, so I found a church on the other side of town and went to confession one day to lay down my burdens.”

  “And what did you confess?” Detective Wolf asked.

  “How much I hated Father Fleming. I was so mad that I wished death on him and anyone else that had been responsible for hurting my baby. I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t hold that hate in. I had to let it out or it was going to consume me.” Mrs. Gooden broke down in sobs.

  “And then what happened?”

  “The priest told me that God protected His flock and He would make things right, if I maintained my faith. When I got home I prayed harder than I had since Johnny went missing. I prayed the evil out of my heart and out of Father Fleming’s. A few days later, the killings started.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “If you found out the man who had murdered your child was killed, would you complain?”

  She had a point.

  “Detective Wolf,” she continued. “I know I was wrong for wishing death on those men, but you have to believe me when I say I never asked anyone to kill them.”

  “Still doesn’t change the fact that people are dead and had you come forward we could’ve stopped it from going beyond Father Fleming.”

  “So what now? Are you going to arrest me?” Mrs. Gooden asked nervously.

  “That was the plan when I came over here, but I don’t think I will,” Wolf said to her surprise.

  “But those men—”

  “Are dead, we’ve already established that. The man who killed your son got what he had coming to him as far as I’m concerned, and the rest, karma will settle up with eventually.”

  “So you’re just going to let me go?” the woman asked in utter shock.

  “Justice has already failed you once, Mrs. Gooden. Consider this just me balancing the scales. Give my best to your family, and enjoy the rest of your day.” He left Mrs. Gooden standing there trying to figure out what had just happened.

  * * *

  Captain Marx sat outside at the little Italian bistro off Mulberry Street, enjoying the weather and a glass of red wine. It was late and most of the other diners had left. The bistro was one of his favorite spots and sometimes he stayed so late that he and the waitstaff were the only ones remaining. Since his retirement one month earlier, he’d spent most of his days building tiny ships inside bottles and reading books, and his nights soaking in the city. He was like a man in his second childhood.

  Margaret Stone sauntered over to his table dressed in a low-cut black top and Capri pants. Diamonds flooded her neck and fingers, courtesy of her late husband’s life insurance policy. She sat in the chair across from her brother, beaming.

  “You’re in an awfully good mood,” Captain Marx observed.

  “I am, and you should be too. The last payment was finally remitted to the Brotherhood. We are officially off the hook,” she announced.

  “Thank God,” Marx sighed. “Now I can stop looking over my shoulder when I come out of the house. That was the longest thirty days of my life.”

  “Don’t blame me, blame the government. If I had given them the entire million at one time, the IRS would’ve had a microscope shoved up my ass. I had to be resourceful.”

  “Well, as long as it’s done, we can finally put all this nasty business behind us.”

  “Speaking of nasty business, how’s our friend doing?” Margaret asked.

  “Detective Sergeant Wolf is doing just what I said he would, enjoying that cushy little position and staying the hell out of my way.”

  “I still think I should’ve shot him too and let our secret die with him,” Margaret said. She had initially planned on killing Wolf after she shot the Black Lotus, but the gun jammed. Had it not been for the police arriving before she could get it working, Detective Wolf would’ve been dead.

  “Well, I’m glad you didn’t. The kid is a headache, but I’ve still got a soft spot for him. I’m his daughter’s godfather, for Christ’s sake. You don’t worry about Wolf, he’s not going to be a problem for us.”

  At that moment the waitress came over. She was a short girl, with red hair and thick glasses. “Compliments of the chef,” she said, setting two sa
ucers on the table with small pieces of white chocolate cake topped with almonds.

  “Tell Gino he’s too kind, and this is for you, kid.” Captain Marx slipped her a twenty-dollar bill. The waitress nodded in thanks and disappeared back inside the kitchen.

  “I guess being a regular here has its perks,” Margaret said before taking a bite of her cake. “My goodness, this is delicious! Aren’t you going to try it?”

  “Nah, my diabetes has been kicking up lately,” Captain Marx responded. “But you enjoy.”

  The brother and sister made light conversation while she ate cake and he sipped wine. She was in the process of telling him about an office space she was thinking about moving into when her face suddenly went slack.

  “What’s wrong?” Marx asked.

  Margaret tried to speak, but it was like she couldn’t catch her breath. She fell from her chair and began to convulse violently, foaming at the mouth.

  Marx dropped to his knees and began shaking her. “Margaret? Margaret! Oh my God, someone get some help!” he screamed. The busboy who had been clearing off a table next to them simply walked away as if he didn’t even see them. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Looks like the arsenic I laced her almonds with is kicking in.” The redheaded waitress was standing over them. He hadn’t even heard her approach. “I’d planned on both of you eating the cake and making this less messy, but I guess I have to improvise.” She picked up a steak knife from the next table.

  The captain looked up in shock. It only took him a few seconds to process what was happening. The whole time he had been looking for a man to come at him, though he had been mistaken. “But I don’t understand . . . We gave the Brotherhood a million dollars to call you off.”

  “I’m no dog of the Brotherhood. I am the hand of God and the harbinger of justice,” she said venomously.

  “I’ll kill you!” Marx sprang to his feet and charged at her.

  The redhead sidestepped him, slicing the knife through his belly. Without breaking her motion, she cut him across his back before bringing the knife around in an arc and embedding it in his collar. With a yank, she hacked through flesh and muscle, breaking the blade off when it made contact with his spinal cord.

  Captain Marx clutched at his wound futilely, hands slick with blood. As he fell he reached for the woman, managing to grab her hair. The red wig slid off her head, revealing the mane of thick black hair hiding beneath. A light of recognition went off in his eyes, because he had seen his killer’s face before—at the crime scene where Poncho was killed, then again when he reviewed the footage from Margaret’s ribbon-cutting ceremony. She was the reporter asking the uncomfortable questions. He opened his mouth to curse her, but all that came out was a sick gurgling sound.

  Kahllah stood there watching as the light drained from Captain Marx’s eyes. His death was a slow and painful one, which made her smile. “Little Johnny Gooden sends his regards from the grave,” she spat on his dead body. From the pocket of her apron she produced two black lotuses and placed one on each corpse. “And for a time evil was still and the night was again quiet,” she said, before vanishing just as suddenly as she had come.

  THE END

  K’WAN is a best-selling, award-winning author of over a dozen titles, including The Fix, Gangsta, Road Dawgz, Street Dreams, Hoodlum, Hood Rat, Section 8, Animal, and Animal II. He has been featured in Vibe, King, Entertainment Weekly, and Time magazine. K’wan was the recipient of the 2012 and 2013 Street Lit Book Award Medals (SLBAM) in adult fiction for Eviction Notice and Animal. His credits also include featured commentary in the documentary Iceberg Slim: Portrait of a Pimp (produced by Ice-T) as well as a recurring role as an analyst on TV One’s Celebrity Crime Files. K’wan currently resides in New Jersey where he is working on his next novel.

  ALSO BY K’WAN

  Gangsta, 2002

  Horse, 2002

  The Game (Anthology), 2003

  Road Dawgz, 2003

  Street Dreams, 2004

  Hoodlum, 2005

  Eve, 2006

  Hood Rat (Book 1), 2006

  “A Hood Rat Short” (Free Story), 2007

  Still Hood (Book 2), 2007

  Blow, 2007

  Flexin & Sexin (Anthology), 2007

  From the Streets to the Sheets (Anthology), 2008

  “Gangsta Walk” (Free Story), 2008

  Gutter, 2008

  Law & Order (Free Story), 2009

  Section 8 (Book 3), 2009

  Flirt (Anthology), 2009

  “The Leak” (Free Short), 2010

  Welfare Wifeys (Book 4), 2010

  From Harlem with Love, 2010

  Eviction Notice (Book 5), 2011

  Love & Gunplay (Book 5.5), 2012

  Animal (Book 6), 2012

  Purple Reign, 2013

  Animal 2: The Omen, 2013

  Little Nikki Grind, 2014

  The Fix, 2014

  H.N.I.C. by Albert "Prodigy" Johson

  with Steven Savile

  Prodigy, from the legendary hip-hop group Mobb Deep, launches Akashic’s new Infamous Books imprint with a story of loyalty, vengeance, and greed.

  “After reading this can’t-take-my-eyes-from-the-pages hardened street novella, I’m thinking less is much more. The authors’ writing rarely misses a beat with characters caught in a violent criminal world with no escape. The work is a breath of fresh air from lengthy, trying-too-hard-to-shock street lit and is an excellent choice for all metropolitan collections.” —Library Journal (starred review, Pick of the Month)

  “The urban setting is unnamed but familiar in this brief, bloody tale of wasted lives lived short and hard.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Simultaneously a fast-paced crime drama and an engrossing, unsentimental moral tale, H.N.I.C. peers into the dark heart that underpins the codes of loyalty and friendship, betrayal and vengeance.” —Brooklyn Daily Eagle

  “In a genre that too often places incorrect ebonics in the mouths of black characters and fails to cross the empathy gap to get into their heads, Savile and Prodigy arrive at a seamless voice that is a refreshing take on crime fiction tropes . . . if tone and texture are what you’re looking for in your hardcore literature . . . H.N.I.C. delivers the goods.” —Okayplayer

  “H.N.I.C. is written by Prodigy himself and shows the extent to which good rappers can make good storytellers.” —Brooklyn Based

  “If you don’t have this novella in your library collection already, please be on the lookout for this 2013 release, H.N.I.C., penned by Hip Hop artist Prodigy of the group, Mobb Deep.” —StreetLiterature.com

  “The strength of this novella, in addition to its straightforward prose and rapid pacing, rests on the universal theme at its center: loyalty. Loyalty and the bullshit our friends put us through . . . Like any good work of crime, H.N.I.C. is grounded in such common experiences and, like any good work of crime, it speaks to all of us, despite the fact that very few of us can bypass an alarm system through some computer trickery.” —Nerds of a Feather, Flock Together

  “It tells the…urban tale of deceit, greed and questioned loyalty with just enough drama to keep you turning the pages.” —Literary Jewels

  “A brutal and quick read . . . custom-made for the big screen.” —Charles Tatum’s Review Archive

  “You can tell that a true lyricist created this gritty tale about greed, betrayal, and street romance. The wordplay is dead on. Combine that with the details that give the freshness of immediate experience and you are no longer reading the story, you are suddenly a character in it. This is what good writing does—it puts you right there in the middle of the action. Excellent read. Salute!” —Miasha, best-selling author of Secret Society

  “Prodigy is a proven storyteller and his skills spill over into the literature game effortlessly. This is a five-star read.” —JaQuavis Coleman, best-selling coauthor of the Cartel series

  “H.N.I.C. is a quick yet engaging read that kept me flipping the pages to see what would hap
pen next.” —K’wan, best-selling author of Animal

  Pappy tries to break out of the game before the head of his crew, Black, gets them all killed. Against his better judgment Pappy agrees to do one last job, but only because it’s the price of his freedom. He knows Black can’t be trusted. He knows his “brother” would rather see him dead than let him walk away. Yet he still agrees to do the job because Black isn’t the only one who can’t be trusted. Sometimes you have to kill for what you want.

  Further developing the stark realism and uncompromising streetwise narratives of his lyrics, H.N.I.C. cements Prodigy’s position as one of the foremost chroniclers of contemporary urban life. Simultaneously a fast-paced crime drama and an engrossing, unsentimental moral tale, H.N.I.C. peers into the dark heart that underpins the codes of loyalty and friendship, betrayal and vengeance.

  With H.N.I.C., Prodigy inaugurates Infamous Books, a revolutionary partnership that pairs the Infamous Records brand with Brooklyn-based independent publisher Akashic Books. Infamous Books’ mission is to connect readers worldwide to crime fiction and street lit authors both familiar and new.

  ALBERT “PRODIGY” JOHNSON, as one half of the hip-hop phenomenon Mobb Deep, has sold millions of albums and recorded with the elite of hip-hop, R&B, and rock. Prodigy is the founder and curator of Infamous Books, and is the author of the memoir My Infamous Life and coauthor, with Steven Savile, of H.N.I.C. and Ritual (forthcoming). He lives in Queens, New York.

  STEVEN SAVILE, a multiple finalist for the British Fantasy Award, has written for Doctor Who, Torchwood, Primeval, Stargate, Warhammer, Sláine, Fireborn, Pathfinder, and other popular game and comic series. He wrote the story for the international best-selling computer game Battlefield 3, which sold over five million copies in its week of release, and served as head writer for the popular online children’s game Spineworld. He is coauthor, with Albert “Prodigy” Johnson, of H.N.I.C. and Ritual.

  H.N.I.C. is available in hardcover and paperback from our website and in bookstores everywhere. The e-book edition is available wherever e-books are sold.

  Swing by Miasha