SEAL THE DEAL, Political Thriller, Opening Chapter

[Jake Coble]

BENTLEY ROBINSON

Brooklyn, New York

June 13, 2024

 

A .45 caliber gun, pressed against his pregnant girlfriend's belly. Fear, rampantly running through his mind. His world, about to crumble in the blink of an eye. Unless he got his shit together - right here, right now. 

Bentley was panting from the emotional exhaustion. It was hard to fathom a more terrifying sight for a soon-to-be-father. Just getting back from a simple grocery run, he dropped every single bag when he opened the door.

"Honey, I'm home..." facetiously echoed the tall, thin man holding the gun against Katalina's stomach, his voice booming with a grin. "At last, he arrives...the man of the hour."

Bentley couldn't make any sudden movements. The second he got back to the apartment, one of the man's cronies pulled a gun on him. All that was left to do was watch and pray the man across the room didn't pull the trigger.

"Relax, boys," he calmly said, looking at his men, each pointing a gun to Bentley's temples. "I think this does the trick."

He pressed the gun down harder on his girlfriend's belly, while she winced in pain. "Look at that! I tell ya, swear I just felt a kick." 

It took every ounce of strength in his body to not charge at the man that very second. But that'd be a death wish in and of itself. 

He had an idea of who this man was - a cartel hitman by the name of Thad Striker. He was an urban myth within the Bedford-Stuyvesant community; the only thing was, you never wanted to see him, for where he went, death followed. Hopefully that trend wasn't going to continue today.

Striker worked for a cartel known as the Brotherhood, that frequently dealt in Bed-Stuy, controlling and dominating an impoverished and financially vulnerable community. Capitalizing on addiction and the desire to feel free through heroin and methamphetamine, the Brotherhood acted as an unstoppable, intimidating force that preyed on the marginalized and poor. 

He always figured the leaders of the cartel paid the local cops and District Attorney to turn a blind eye to the violence and the mounting bloodshed. They'd been turning their backs on this neighborhood for decades. 

The Brotherhood would sell you whatever you wanted, for a cost that was too high for Bentley's liking. But, like many people in this town, it was getting more and more difficult to keep up with the payments - and the Brotherhood's steep interest. They didn't have much money in the first place, so what'd they expect? It was a game everyone was destined to fail.

Out of what the Brotherhood called "good will" to the community, they'd show a little mercy here or there, but the cardinal rule of it all: do not, under any circumstances, be late on a payment. 

Because if you do, you might just come home from a run to the grocery store with a notorious hitman pointing a gun right at your three girls. 

Kat was having twins, due on the Fourth of July. But that wasn't the only thing due then.

"Last I checked...Mr. Robinson..." Striker said, grabbing a cigarette with his right hand and positioning it in the corner of his mouth. "Do me a favor, darlin'..." he said, looking at Katalina with a smirk. "Light this for me. Little busy over here."

His girlfriend fearfully obliged. She was breathing heavy, nearly hyperventilating.

"Like I was trying to say, Mr. Robinson...last I checked, today's the 13th. You're behind."

"I'm sorry, I'll..." he frantically replied, before Striker cut him off.

"No, no, no...I'm talking here. I don't care about your excuse. Thing is, you should've moved 15 of our 25K by now. My boss was looking at our offshores the other day, and only saw nine. While y'all don't know my boss, he's kind of a...oh, how should I put it? He's an impatient man. Said you gotta move the rest by the Fourth."

"About that..." Bentley said, his voice meek, fear manifesting itself as his legs began to shake. "I don't know if I can do that. You see, we ain't get that much business here lately, and I got other co-managers. I can't just sneak this under their noses that easy."

Thad laughed in a sinister way, as a cunning smile flashed across his otherwise long and pale face that was covered in a thick five o'clock shadow. "That wasn't a request. I didn't come here to ask your permission to move our money, Bentley. All 25, by the Fourth. That was our deal."

He'd been in debt to the Brotherhood after coming up a couple grand short over the course of his past few deals. Rather than unnecessarily taking him out over a couple racks, the cartel decided it'd be best to get Bentley to work for them, by laundering some of their dirty cash through his auto repairs shop to earn his keep. It wasn't Thad who consulted him about that mission - it was the "beauty of the Brotherhood", Yaní Bellamy - whom the entire Bed-Stuy community had developed an unhealthy crush on by now.

Yaní told him to move the 25 by the Fourth of July, and gave him just over a two-month window to get it done. Not an easy task when you've got a shoddy business that's been in the red the past six months. Thousands and thousands of dollars popping out of thin air would raise eyebrows. 

But he didn't have time to negotiate. He'd seen what happened to those who were in debt to the Brotherhood in the past. All dead or working for the cartel in some capacity. And, once you started working for them - you were in it until you got a bullet in the chest. Bentley couldn't go down the same road - he had girls to raise, after all. 

"You know, I always wanted kids, man," Striker said. "Still got plenty of time, though." He looked to be in his mid-twenties, give or take. Young, but a seasoned, cold-blooded killer. "You got any tips for me?" he asked, looking at Kat, while gently caressing the contour of her face. 

She kept shaking her head, sweat dripping down her brow. She was on the brink of a panic attack. 

"Nothin'? C'mon now, honey. I know you can give me something, baby."

Katalina kept shaking her head, taking a multitude of deep breaths, trying to stay calm but to no avail.

"Well...I suppose I've made my point here," he said, fidgeting to get up but opting to stay seated for a second. Until another sinister and devilish look crossed his face as he stared right into Bentley's eyes.

"Eh, maybe not."

He tapped the trigger.

Bentley's heart skipped a beat.

Safety mode.

Striker loudly cackled as Bentley dropped to his knees. "Jesus Christ! You should've seen the fucking look on your face! What'd I tell y'all?" he said, looking at his men by the door. "I told y'all that'd work. I gotta use that more, my God! That was gold."

He got up from the seat, flicking his cigarette out the open window while stroking the stubble on his chin. Thad crouched down to Bentley's level. "The 25 grand, by the Fourth. You understand?"

"Yes sir," he replied, anxious to console his girlfriend. 

"Good. Let's hope you don't have to see me again."

"One thing..." Bentley said, his voice cracking from the nerves.

"And what's that?" Striker replied, his sharp brown eyes looking right into Bentley's soul, amused.

"Not my girls, man. Whatever you do. Not my girls."

Striker subtly nodded, then left the apartment, still with a smile on his face as he couldn't get over his cruel, and twisted prank. His boys followed suit.

As soon as they left, Bentley ran over and wrapped up his girlfriend in a massive hug, holding on tight.

"It's gonna be okay. It's gonna be okay. We'll make it out of this," he said.

That was a lie. He knew there was no way he'd be able to move the money in time.

And he sure as hell wasn't going to become just another one of the cartel's soldiers to die in turf wars.

The only way he could get out of this situation, and save his girls, was to kill Thad Striker himself.