Black Lotus 2 Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Part 2

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part 3

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  About K'wan

  About Akashic Books

  Copyrights & Credits

  Dedicated to the pieces of me that I lost

  between the creation and publication of this story.

  Denise S. Joseph

  11/28/78–9/2/19

  William “Jamal” Greene

  3/25/54–6/9/20

  PROLOGUE

  Run! The word exploded in Francis’s head. And run he did. He darted across the street and into an alley between two brownstones, one of which was under construction. It was dark and hard to see; he tripped over a loose cinder block, and would have landed on his face had his hands not broken the fall. His pistol escaped his grip and slid across the concrete, lying there exposed. He wasn’t worried about anyone seeing it and calling the police. In fact, he’d have welcomed a visit from New York’s finest at that moment. He cast a nervous glance over his shoulder before collecting his weapon and continuing.

  Francis hopped a short fence at the end of the yard and landed in a vacant lot. Old tires and other oddities sat within the long-neglected grass and weeds. Francis started to slow down, but a large rottweiler, barreling toward him, changed his mind. He thought about just shooting the dog but reasoned that he might need whatever bullets he had left. He’d lost count blocks ago. Running top speed, he hit the fence on the opposite side and bounded over it. The rottweiler snapped at him, but only came away with the cuff of his jeans.

  Francis found himself near the Laundromat on 131st and Fifth Avenue. The block held a sprinkling of people, mostly crackheads at that time of night, but they were witness. Francis looked back through the alley and saw that he was no longer being followed. Even if his pursuer were still on his trail, the dog would be a nice surprise. Tucking his gun, he made quick steps up the dark block.

  When Francis felt like he had a large enough lead, he spared a moment to catch his breath. He ran his hand across his molasses-black forehead and it came away drenched with sweat. There was a time he could’ve run a mile without so much as getting winded, but that was before the cigarettes and booze. The thought of a smoke sent his hand fishing for a Newport in his pocket. He lit the cancer stick and exhaled a cloud, wondering where it all went wrong.

  That morning had started out like any other. Francis got up, dressed, gargled with two nips of cheap whiskey, and went to work. He clocked in at his nine-to-five and then slid off to his other job. Not long after, he got a call to meet with his “associate” about the end result of the task he’d been assigned. He had expected as much, considering what had gone down. In truth, he had planned on reaching out himself if the associate hadn’t beaten him to it. He would hear the man out and then decide whether he was going to break his jaw or one of his arms. Somebody had fucked up.

  Francis was what you would call a hustler. He had a decent-paying gig, but from time to time he still did things he wasn’t supposed to on the side for extra money, like this job with his associate. The one that was currently burning his life to the ground and trying to take him with it.

  The associate was a man with whom Francis had done frequent business. He knew who to go to for dirty work. They had made quite a few dollars together over the last couple of months, and this one promised to be the sweetest score of them all. It would be quick and more than worth the trouble. The catch was that it had to go down immediately. They had a small window, and once it closed there wouldn’t be another one.

  The associate’s tips had always been good up to that point, but Francis was still hesitant. He didn’t generally do jobs without vetting them, but the weight of what he owed to bookies and back alimony was riding him. This pushed Francis to go against his better judgment and take the job. That’s when everything went bad. Francis had made a desperate move, and it would cost him. How much was yet to be determined.

  Shortly after his meeting with the associate, Francis called his job and notified them that he would be taking an emergency leave of absence. His superiors weren’t happy because it was such short notice, but Francis had the vacation time, so there was nothing they could do. He shot home, packed a few essentials, and planned to get in the wind. He tossed his bag into the trunk of his 2003 Altima and slid behind the wheel. He was going to hit I-95; outside of gas and piss breaks he had no intention of stopping until he crossed the Georgia state line. Until things cooled off in New York, he’d crash with a friend in the Georgia police.

  He was just about to put the car in gear when an odd sensation washed over him. It was the feeling you got when someone was watching you. He scanned both sides of the street and didn’t see anyone, except a woman pushing a stroller and a cluster of boys huddled in front of the corner store. Francis shrugged off the feeling and pulled out into the evening traffic.

  The Altima pushed up Seventh Avenue, doing about sixty. He was worried about quite a few things, but getting pulled over wasn’t one of them. Any blue-and-white cruiser that made the mistake of stopping him would quickly realize that they had wasted their time. Francis was connected.

  He fished a Newport from his pack and pushed in the car’s cigarette lighter. While waiting for it to heat up, he contemplated making a pit stop in Maryland. He had a lady friend who lived out that way who could do some magical things with her mouth. A good blow job and a hot meal might be exactly what he needed to take the edge off his nerves. As he was pressing the end of the lighter to his cigarette, his eyes drifted up to his rearview and saw something that made him swerve. He wasn’t alone. There was a shadowy figure in the backseat.

  “What the fuck?” Francis gasped.

  “Not what, Francis. Who,” the shadow corrected him. “The angel of death has come to pay a visit on you this evening.”

  Francis caught the glint of something shiny as they passed under a streetlight—a blade. “Sorry, I’m not really up for company tonight.” He jerked the wheel to the right just as the shadow attacked. The car lurched to one side, knocking the intruder off-balance. Instead of slicing Francis’s throat as intended, the blade cut into his shoulder. Francis felt his arm go numb and lost control of the vehicle. Before he could right its course, the Altima slammed into the back of a parked car.

  When his head hit the steering wheel, Francis must’ve blacked out, because the next thing he knew he was being pulled from the car. Though disoriented, his survival instincts were still fully intact. He yanked his Glock from his shoulder holster and shoved it at whoever was grabbing him. He was about to pull the trigger, thinking it was the shadow, but instead found himself staring up at a startled white man. “What are you doing?” Francis wasn’t sure if he was asking the white man or himself.

  “You . . . you were in an accident,” the Good Samaritan stammered. “I was trying to help.”

  “Back the fuck up!” Francis ordered. Blood was running down the side of his face and dripping onto the ground. He tried to stand but felt the world around him swim. He must have hit his head harder than he thought.

  “That’s a nasty wound you got. Lay still and I’ll call an ambulance.” The Good Samaritan whipped out a cell phone and started punching numbers. Francis was about to tell him that it was unnecessary, but he didn’t have to. The man suddenly froze, eyes wide in shock as i
f he had just seen something horrifying. He gargled something, before blood started running down his chin and he pitched forward onto the ground next to Francis. Standing over them was the shadow.

  For the first time Francis was able to get a good look at his attacker. He was slender yet built, wearing a black bodysuit and armor. There were two pistols strapped to his thighs and a harness crisscrossing his chest, holding more blades. A black mask covered his face, with something Francis couldn’t quite make out marked on the forehead. If death were to ever assume a physical form, there was no doubt in Francis’s mind that he was staring at it.

  “Francis Cobb,” the shadow began in his mechanical voice, “I have come to pass sentence on you for the crimes you have committed. Are you prepared to be judged?”

  “Judge this!” Francis tried to bring his gun into play. As he brought it up, the shadow’s hand closed around the barrel and applied pressure. Francis watched in disbelief as it bent, rendering it useless. “What are you?”

  “I am the strong right arm of God . . . the Maiden Sword of Justice. I am the antidote for the sickness infecting this world.”

  “What’s going on out here?” The owner of the store the Altima had crashed in front of came out to investigate. For a moment the shadow was distracted, and that was all the time Francis needed to make his escape.

  Francis took off down the street, trying to run yet only managing a speedy hobble. He was in a world of pain, but had to fight through it if he planned on surviving. He spared a glance over his shoulder to see if the killer was still after him, and he was. The assassin wasn’t running. It was more like he would disappear into one patch of shadow and reappear in another, closing the distance between them. It would only be a matter of time before Francis was caught, unless a miracle happened—and it did. A cube truck was turning the corner just ahead. The truck almost clipped Francis as he limped across its path. It cut the killer off from his trail just long enough for Francis to disappear down a dark alley. He had been running ever since.

  Francis knew that he had escaped by sheer luck. If it weren’t for him knowing the area better than his pursuer, and that big-ass dog in the yard, he’d probably be stiff as a log. He knew not to press his luck further. Most of his belongings were still in the trunk of his car, though he had a little cash on him. Hopefully it was enough to get him on the next thing smoking out of town.

  His cigarette singeing his fingers let him know that it was done, so he flicked it away. No sooner had the butt hit the ground than Francis heard something whistle past his ear, followed by a prick of pain. He thought a mosquito had bitten him, but when he touched his fingers to his lobe, they came away bloody. A few feet away he noticed a silver dart sticking out of the tire of a car. He’d been found!

  Francis’s eyes shot to the doorway behind him. At first there was only darkness, but then something spilled from it—the shadow. How could he have caught up so quickly? There was no time to ponder it. Francis had to get away. He turned to run, but didn’t get very far as the shadow let loose another dart. This one cut through the tendon on the back of his leg and dropped him. The shadow took his time stalking Francis as he tried to crawl away.

  “Death is the only thing in life that is truly inevitable,” the shadow said. Francis rolled over and tried to raise his gun to get off another shot, but the shadow kicked it away. “It doesn’t matter how far we run or how well we think we’ve hidden ourselves. When it’s our time, it’s just our time.”

  The shadow was nearly on top of Francis. In the light Francis was able to get a better look. The mask covering his enemy’s face was of a dull black that reflected no light; the marking on the forehead wasn’t a marking at all, but a carving. When the shadow straddled Francis’s chest, he was able to make it out: it was a black flower.

  “Do you know who the fuck I am?” Francis tried to sound as if he wasn’t scared to death. He figured, just maybe, if the shadow realized who he worked for, he may think twice about committing a capital offense.

  “Of course I do. The mongoose has been dispatched to kill the snake.”

  Francis’s blood ran cold. If he wasn’t sure before, those words left no question as to what this was about.

  The shadow deftly slid two of the daggers from his harness and twirled them expertly between his fingers, then straddled Francis’s chest. He pressed his knees into his shoulders, keeping his arms spread out. It was then that Francis noticed an odd smell. Mingled under the musty leather of his bodysuit was something sweet. It was jasmine. Not the fragrance but the plant. Francis was familiar with the scent because jasmine had been his mother’s favorite.

  “A vow is the most sacred of oaths, and you have broken yours. Repent and I’ll make your death a swift one,” the shadow promised.

  “What vow?” Francis was genuinely confused.

  “The one you took the day you graduated from the academy. Instead of serving and protecting, you’ve lied and corrupted. For this you must be judged.” The shadow drove the daggers through Francis’s outstretched palms, crucifying him to the ground.

  “Jesus!” Francis howled.

  “He died for our sins as you shall die for yours.” The shadow slipped a pistol from his right thigh and braced the barrel underneath Francis’s chin. “You were blinded by greed and have lost your way, but I will set you back on the path. The innocent blood spilled will be the life-giving nectar that waters your grave.”

  “That wasn’t on me,” Francis managed to croak. “I was just hired to do a job. I didn’t kill anybody! Why should I have to die?”

  The shadow pondered the question momentarily. “Because it was written.”

  PART I

  it was written

  Chapter 1

  Thirteen hours prior

  Kahllah sat at her desk, reading over her story for the fifth time. She had been working on it for weeks to make sure it read cleanly when it was published in Real Talk.

  Real Talk was her dream, a magazine geared toward urban and working-class people. It was fast becoming one of the hottest magazines on the stands, but it had originally been little more than a blog started by two college girls, Kahllah and her best friend Audrey. The blog had gotten so big around campus that the two girls, years later, decided to test it in print. With Kahllah’s savings, they ran off five thousand copies and took their show on the road, pitching to every independent retailer they could reach in Kahllah’s beat-up Honda. Just a couple years after their first road trip, the magazine was now carried by over one hundred retailers in several states, and boasted an impressive online readership. Not bad for two orphans.

  When the letters on her computer screen started dancing around, Kahllah knew it was time to take a break. She stood up and stretched her five-nine frame, trying to relieve the stiffness in her back. She flinched as she felt the tenderness in her shoulder. Instinctively her hand went to the spot, fingers tracing the raised scar beneath her shirt. Had the bullet struck her three inches higher, it would’ve likely taken her head off. The shooting had happened six months ago, but the incident remained fresh in her mind.

  She ran her fingers through her jet-black hair and rubbed her scalp, feeling the resistance of tangles. It had been awhile since she treated herself to more than a wash and set. Kahllah rarely bothered with primping. Unlike Audrey, who refused to leave the house without at least a light face beat, Kahllah was simple. A little lip gloss and a ponytail and she was ready to tackle the world.

  Kahllah possessed a natural beauty—bronzed skin and an angelic face. Her eyes always danced between butterscotch brown and a dull hazel. Guessing her ethnicity was nearly impossible. Some mistook her for an Arab, others saw a touch of Caribbean in her. She’d been born in a small Middle Eastern village that sat on the edge of a city so ravaged by war that she doubted it still existed. Not that she cared either way. Her native land held nothing for her but the horrible memories of what she once was.

  While most American children were fortunate enough to have childh
oods, even those born to less than favorable conditions, Kahllah had no idea what it was like to be a kid. She lost her mother at six and her father at nine. Before her eleventh birthday, she was the property of slavers and placed on loan to whoever had enough coin to purchase a night with her. When she thought life couldn’t get any worse, she was sold to a wealthy Nigerian man. He was as rich as he was evil, and subjected Kahllah to atrocities far worse than anything she had endured previously. Those were dark years. Often she prayed for death to take her away. Then came the night when God finally answered; the Nigerian was murdered.

  Kahllah slid her desk drawer open, in search of her planner. She had quite a few things to do today, including lunch with Audrey. She found the leather-bound booklet under a stack of mail that she had yet to open. They were mostly bills that she’d get around to later. But she noticed something else tucked into the drawer: a copy of the Village Voice. She was sure it hadn’t been there when she left last night, which meant someone had come in. It appeared locking her office door each night wasn’t enough.

  Her first instinct was to toss the weekly newspaper and be done with it. She already knew what would be inside—the same thing that had been inside the last two that had turned up. One in her locker at the gym where she worked out, the other in the bathroom of the shop where she enjoyed her morning coffee. She wasn’t sure if it was out of curiosity or habit that she flipped through the pages. Her finger surfed the classifieds, skipping through the white noise. She was looking for something in particular.

  It didn’t take long to find it. The headline had been carefully placed among the advertisements of people seeking companionship. “Must Love Flowers.” To the casual reader it was no different from the other queries from desperate souls looking for discreet encounters. Kahllah knew better. The headline was a coded message. Someone was trying to contract the Black Lotus.

  A soft knock at her door startled Kahllah. She shoved the newspaper under a stack of folders and straightened. She hoped it wasn’t their editor, Mrs. Jones, pestering her about the story again. She had a lot of love for the woman, but she could be a pain in the ass. Mrs. Jones was incredibly old-fashioned in her thinking, but had a very keen eye, which was why they hired her. Before coming to work at Real Talk, she had spent twenty years as an English professor at Rutgers University.