Death Before Dishonor Read online

  Carlos was an avid gambler who’d accrued sizeable debts. That made him easy prey to the machinations of the ESI executives, who’d felt it necessary to involve him in the scandal if they were going to keep him from raising the alarm at the tremendous annual losses the company had been sustaining. He’d been coaxed into purchasing a large portion of shares of ESI at their true value and selling them at their inflated, fraudulent price, thus making a fortune in the process.

  In comparison to the executives, Carlos was not as deeply involved in the scandal as the members of the board, and the prosecution, therefore, offered him leniency if he testified against his colleagues and relinquished the profit that he had hustled.

  To protect their interests, realizing that they would surely be convicted if Carlos released ESI’s fiscal reports and testified, the executives pooled their resources and hired Terry and Yuri to assassinate Carlos and make the fiscal reports vanish. As payment, Terry and Yuri were offered one hundred and fifty thousand dollars up front and Carlos’s share-sale profit as a completion bonus provided they could extract it from his bank account.

  Carlos was a creature of habit, Terry and Yuri noticed; the DA had made him more so. The Harris County District Attorney’s Office kept a tight leash on Carlos, and that made surveillance easy for them. He went to work at the same time every day, stopped at the same coffee shop every morning, left work at the same time, walked the same path from the front door of the ESI satellite to the parking garage, and stopped for happy hour twice a week at the same restaurant.

  After a week of surveillance, the plan was to ambush Carlos in a secluded location, force from him the information on the fiscal reports and the location of his profits, and ensure that he was unable to testify on schedule. A simple-to-execute plan, they just had to ensure that the linchpin of their plan was in place: Antwon Coates.

  ***

  The bass peaked on Antwon’s computer’s subwoofer as he ditty-bopped from the bedroom to the bathroom to the beat of the song and strode up to the mirror, grabbing the tube of toothpaste from the sink and holding it to his mouth like a microphone, mouthing the lyrics. Antwon enjoyed escaping the constant grind—a grind of living from paycheck to paycheck, doing odd jobs for additional income, and enduring the persistent nagging of his daughter’s mother. In the mirror, he was a rap superstar clad head to toe in designer clothing, performing on stage in front of a mass of screaming fans. To add to his mystique, he obscured his face beneath a fitted baseball cap, and he dazzled onlookers with the light reflected from the precious stones that covered an outrageously ornate charm that swayed from side to side at waist level on an equally ornate chain.

  Suddenly, in mid-verse, an offbeat whine rang through the stadium. Puzzled, he and his adoring public looked skyward in search of its source. Despite it, though, Antwon managed to stay in the zone and continue his performance; the show must go on. The fans forgot the impromptu sound and returned their attention to the rhymes that Antwon created. Again, the whine’s out-of-phase chime reverberated through the rafters; as it did, the entire right side of the stadium, from pit to rampart, dematerialized into nothingness, revealing a bleach-white bathroom wall.

  Antwon stopped, lowering the toothpaste from his mouth. He listened closely for the whine again, and the portions of the stadium that had not faded began to. The whine rang once more, and Antwon left the bathroom for the front door, realizing that it was the doorbell he kept hearing; the concert faded into oblivion as he departed.

  Through the peephole, he saw a white male with dirty blonde hair and icy-blue eyes, dressed in a purple polo and purple shorts, with a package under his arm. Antwon cracked the door and peered through. “Who are you?”

  A pleasant smile stretched across Yuri’s face as he pointed at the sigil on his shirt. “Federal Express.”

  Antwon opened the door fully, revealing his outfit: socks, boxer shorts, a midriff-revealing wife beater, fitted ball cap, and a dog’s choke chain with an identity tag that read Lacey hanging from his neck. “What do you want?” he asked.

  Yuri, caught momentarily off guard, fought back laughter with a cough but managed to maintain his pleasant smile. “Delivery?” he asked and declared simultaneously.

  “Oh.” Antwon scratched at his groin and leaned in to look at the package. “Who’s it from?”

  One of Yuri’s eyebrows rose sharply, and then he tapped at the return address with his index finger. He then pushed the package into Antwon’s arms and pulled his tablet, signaling for Antwon to sign electronically. “Nice chain, the by the way—bet the bitches drool over it.”

  Antwon looked down at the dog chain, not realizing until now that he had answered the door in costume. Feeling embarrassed, Antwon lifted his eyes, but Yuri had already disappeared into the stairwell. Antwon could hear Yuri’s laughter echoing back up the steps.

  Antwon closed the door and was looking the package over when the phone rang. He moseyed over to it and glanced at the screen to see who was calling. It wasn’t a number he recognized, so he ignored it and went to the kitchen for a knife to open the packaging tape.

  The phone rang again. And again, he didn’t answer it.

  It rang three more times, and he answered it finally, annoyed. “Who dis?” he said menacingly into the receiver.

  “May I speak with Mr. Antwon Coates?” Terry asked in an affable tone.

  “Whatchu want?”

  “Is this Mr. Coates?”

  Antwon’s lips twisted. “Whatchu want?”

  “It is Mr. Coates! Hello, Mr. Coates. How are you today?”

  “Do I know you?”

  “Oh, I’m well, Mr. Coates. Thank you for politely asking.”

  “I’m only gon’ ask you one more time.” Antwon lifted the phone and spoke directly into the receiver. “Who dis?” He returned the phone to his ear.

  “Fine,” Terry said, “I’ll depose with the formalities then, Antwon. I can call you Antwon, right?”

  “Yeah, dis conversation’s over with.”

  Terry’s pitch climbed patronizingly as he said, “I wouldn’t hang the phone up, Antwon. Not with how much you have riding on this call, anyway.”

  “What?”

  “Antwon”—Terry paused—“I’m a businessman—cut and dry. Now, whether I’m a good businessman or a bad one is entirely up to you.”

  “You…you threatening me?”

  “Oh no, Antwon. I would never threaten a man of your social status, especially not with a chain that authentic.” Antwon looked down at the dog chain again and then shot the receiver a puzzled look before returning it to his ear. “But enough with the small talk; let’s get right down to the matter at hand. I think I may have a proposition that you’ll find rather profitable.”

  “Really?” Antwon was unconvinced.

  “Really.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The package you have in your hand, open it.”

  Antwon turned the package over in his hand, opened it, and peeked into it as suspiciously as he’d answered the door. What he saw, however, robbed his mouth of its moisture. “Holy shit!”

  “What you’re looking at, Antwon, is ten grand in twenty dollar bills for you to use at your leisure.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “You said that already.”

  “Holy shit! Are you for real?”

  “Do I sound like I’m joking?”

  “I mean…is this shit real?”

  “Don’t insult me, Antwon. It hurts my feelings.”

  “Alright, wait a minute.” Antwon’s mind was racing. “What’s the catch?”

  “No real catch.”

  “So there is one?”

  “Well, nothing comes free, now, does it?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Only a small favor.”

  “Which is what exactly?”

  “For you to simply keep your mouth shut and follow my instructions precisely.”

  Antwon hunkered his head down into his shoulde
r has if he were trying to hide the conversation from eavesdroppers. “About what?”

  “Two unfamiliar men are going to visit your job after hours. I want you to let them pass without question. And you won’t speak of them afterward.”

  “You want me to do what?”

  “Antwon, don’t play dumb. You heard me just fine.”

  “So if I do, I get to keep the money?”

  “Precisely.”

  Antwon flipped through a stack of bills with his thumb in thoughtful silence as he contemplated the reality of the conversation and the money. “What happens if I just keep it?”

  “I was so hoping you’d ask me that question. Arrogance brightens my day. Antwon, open the package back up, and you’ll see a manila folder.” He opened it again and pulled the folder free from its bindings. “Yes, that one. Please open it.”

  A confused look washed over Antwon’s face. Could the person he was talking to see him? He approached his glass balcony door and scanned outside at the other balconies, windows, and roofs. Nothing—Nobody. Resigned, he pulled open the adhesive and removed its contents: several eight-by-ten photos that caused his body to seize briefly with astonishment and fear.

  “Antwon, believe me when I tell you that your daughter, Takara, is more beautiful in person that she appears in pictures. How old is she—eight, nine maybe?” Antwon shook his head, hardly able to believe what he was seeing or hearing, and Terry’s voice became saturated with menace. “In any case, I’d hate for something unfortunately brutal to happen to her. She seems so happy and serene sitting on the swing at the daycare right now. Don’t let your ego put her in a body bag.”

  Fear transformed into rage, and Antwon slung the pictures across his small living room and howled into the phone, “You better not touch my daughter, motherfucker! I will fucking kill you!”

  Terry laughed, and Antwon could hear him clapping his hands in amusement in the background. “Antwon, you are hardly in a position to make threats. After all, you can’t see me, but I can see your daughter. Think about that. Remember our deal. I’ll call you later if I have more tasking. Ta-ta,” Terry said.

  ***

  “Mr. Irizarry, the District Attorney’s Office called to reschedule this week’s appointment,” Carlos’s secretary said, charging into his office. “They also faxed these documents for review.”

  Carlos slouched in his chair with his back to the door and his desk, gazing out of the windows of his office with the phone pressed to his ear. “Okay, Miss McGuiness. Thank you,” he replied over his phone conversation and then returned to it. “You were saying?”

  “Oh, and your wife called—”

  “Mm-hmm just put them in the inbox,” he said absently, pointing in the relative direction of the box at the corner of his desk in his distinct Mexican-American accent.

  “—twice. The movers said they need your written consent to move the statue.”

  “Hold on for me a second,” he said into the phone and then spun to face her. “Sign those documents for me and notarize them. I have to get going.”

  “How about the orphans’ charity luncheon?”

  After a couple of seconds more of the conversation, he placed the phone on the base. “I’m not sure what time I’ll be in tomorrow. Forward all my calls to my cellphone.”

  “Fine. But what about the luncheon?”

  “And put that memo you typed on letterhead and tell the D.A. that Wednesday is fine.”

  “Yes, sir. What about the luncheon?”

  “I heard you the first time, Aileen.”

  “Can I get an answer?”

  “If I cared about the orphans, they would have been first on my list of priorities to address. And considering my current legal entanglements, I’m not letting go of any money that’s not going to land me in prison.”

  “Fair enough. Luncheon is off the list. Anything else?”

  Suddenly his attention returned to the office. “Now that you mention it, Aileen…fishnets and stilettos would really spice this place up.”

  “I’ll get right on that, Mr. Irizarry.”

  “In fact, something low-cut too.”

  Aileen extracted some documents from Carlos’s desk and pretended to pay him little attention. “Sexual harassment is a crime, Mr. Irizarry.”

  “What’s the worst thing that could happen?” Carlos laughed deviously. “One more litigation to add to my résumé. Besides, I’m so much better looking than that thing you call a boyfriend.”

  Aileen turned and stalked out as swiftly as she’d entered. “Good night, Mr. Irizarry.”

  “Let’s get a drink.”

  “Go home to your wife, Mr. Irizarry.”

  “You don’t know my wife,” Carlos said as he watched his secretary walk back to her desk.

  His mind drifted to the legal muddle that enveloped him and how badly it was firebombing his life. His wife was planning to leave him, and his daughters would hardly speak to him unless they were calling to scream. He was losing the house, his children’s college funding was evaporating, and his debt was soaring. What was he to do? Life was at an all-time low. Why couldn’t he do something to make himself feel better? Hell, his wife wasn’t helping.

  No—this wasn’t her fault; this was his. He knew that he just wanted it to go away. Why had he allowed himself to get involved with the scandal? He knew better. He was no criminal; they were. They were the individuals who’d plotted this whole ménage of greed. He’d simply given in to temptation like every human does from time to time and found himself trafficking with white-collar criminals.

  To be honest, he didn’t want to testify against them; many had become his friends. But he had to look after his own interests as well as those of his family. He had no time to help others when his own life was unraveling.

  Carlos looked over at the clock and realized that he had drifted off in thought for longer than he had meant and needed to gather his effects and leave for home.

  ***

  Antwon looked up from the security monitor of the lobby’s security node and noticed Carlos stepping off of the elevator. “Hey, Mr. Irizarry! When you gonna hook me up with that big-paying job?”

  Carlos’s face was sullen as he passed, heading for the door. “When I’m not on the chopping block, Antwon.”

  “I feel you,” Antwon replied, clapping his hands together. “You just gotta maintain. The world is yours if you want it to be. You just gotta decide if you a king or you a peasant.”

  Carlos backed through the glass door as he nodded at Antwon. “I’ll keep that in mind. You have a nice evening, Antwon.”

  “Stay up, Mr. Irizarry.”

  ***

  Terry sat on the back of a bench of the bus stop outside of ESI, dressed in unassuming clothes that camouflaged him against the other patrons waiting for mass transit. He keyed the dial function of his mobile, ensured that his earpiece was properly seated with a tap, and dropped the phone into his coat pocket as the call was answered. “Yuri, the target is moving your direction,” he said. Only one person in the bored crowd paid him any attention when they heard his Japanese. No one else seemed to care.

  “Understood. He’s coming directly to me?”

  “Looks that way. He’s entering the parking garage now.”

  “Engaging.”

  ***

  Carlos was on autopilot as he walked down the sidewalk to the parking garage. His life was coming unglued, although, in spite of it all, life was greatly more relaxed than he had assumed it would be on the cusp of a prison sentence. Try as he might, though, he could not shake the sickening feeling that his testimony would make his situation worse. He assumed the relative calm was before the coming storm. Only time would tell, though.

  “Hey, mister, you—you got a dollar?” The suddenness of the strained, raspy voice in the seemingly empty parking garage startled Carlos, and he leaped away from the stanchion from which the voice came. A beggar with a dirt-caked, graying beard and draped in tattered, filthy rags peered ar
ound the concrete cylinder with an outreached hand. “I—I gotta eat.”

  Carlos’s alarm drained away, and disdain filled the space it left. “What you need to do is go away.”

  “I don’t mean you no harm, mister,” the man said. “I just want a dollar so I can eat.”

  “Get a job, because I don’t have any money to give.” Carlos continued to his car. “Now, go away.”

  “Aw c’mon, mister. I—”

  “I will pepper spray you,” Carlos warned calmly.

  Yuri’s receiver crackled to life with Terry’s voice as Yuri stalked his prey. “The area is clear on this side,” said Terry. “I’m circling the garage to look for other intruders. Confirm that you have the target in sight.”

  “I have him,” Yuri whispered into his throat microphone.

  Carlos opened the door to his luxury vehicle and climbed in, cursing the homeless man venomously. As he was getting situated and buckling his seatbelt, his mobile phone rang; it was muffled, and Carlos didn’t remember where he had put it. He foraged through the pockets of his coat and then his pants before he dove into his briefcase, finally finding it at the bottom. He pulled it out, managing to see only the glowing screen before he fumbled it and dropped it in between the seat and the center console.

  Carlos aspirated a combination of frustrated curses and then groaned aloud as he stuffed his hand into the tight space. By the time he reached the phone, however, he had missed the call, and his hand ached from forcing it into a space too small for it.

  The phone evaded Carlos’s grip for several seconds until he was able to manage a solid grip with his fingers around the case. He extracted it slowly, trying not to catch the lip of the center console as he drew his hand and the phone through the space that his hand only struggled to pass through. At least the pull was easier than the push—though it didn’t hurt any less.