Out a Order Read online

  OUT “A” ORDER

  EVIE RHODES

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  MISSING IN ACTION (M.I.A.)

  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

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  Copyright Page

  As always, my book is dedicated to the Lord Jesus Christ!

  Thank you, Jesus, for giving your all!

  And

  To my husband, James Rhodes!

  Thanks once again for helping

  the vision come true!

  Acknowledgments

  A most warm and gracious thanks to The Lord Jesus Christ. There’s no me without you.

  Sincerest and heartfelt, thanks to my husband, James Rhodes. Thank you for being my rock! I love you, love you, love you Jimmy Rhodes, and I want the world to know!

  And to all those special people who help me carry the vision—much love to you: Karen Thomas, my very wonderful editor. Thanks for believing in my works. The entire Kensington Publishing family, thank you for what continues to be a great opportunity!

  Robert G. (Bob) Diforio, thanks for sharing and nurturing!

  To the distributors, wholesalers, jobbers, booksellers, librarians, Book Clubs, radio stations and television affiliates, thanks so much for your support of my works. It means the world to me.

  Peggy Hicks, TriCom Publicity you’re wonderful. Thank you for believing in me!

  Pamela Walker-Williams, you are the master of webmasters! Thank you.

  A warm and special thanks to The Oxygen Television Network and Kim Fucillo, for their wonderful advertising planning with my novel Criss Cross.

  Doug Ingber, Director and Film Editor, Ingber Television, you are simply the best. Jimmy and I love you but you know that! Thanks for visualizing my vision on the highest level.

  Patrick Adams, you never fail to amaze me with your gifts and your contribution to my gifts. You are my “Star” Producer! Thanks for the original score on the commercial and film trailer for Criss Cross.

  And to my readers, you are everything! Thank you for sharing your time when reading my works, writing to me, and sharing the works with others. You’re a precious find in my life!

  May The Lord Bless You All!

  To all who know me, I remain Standing In Da Spirit!

  Author’s Note

  I was born in Newark, New Jersey, and decided to use this city as a base for a story that I felt was very important in its telling. However, I have fictionalized the city, specifically “the Central Ward,” to a great degree, in order to create a world all it’s own.

  I’d like to personally thank the city of Newark, New Jersey, “the Central Ward,” and its residents for being the model for the springboard of my imagination.

  I wish the city of Newark and its residents every blessing.

  Evie Rhodes

  P.O. Box 320503

  Hartford, CT 06132

  [email protected]

  www.evierhodes.com

  MISSING IN ACTION (M.I.A.)

  I don’t shout my lyrics like all the rest,

  my name is Prophecy 1, and I’m doing my best,

  no hype, no pipe, no gimmicks, see,

  no perpetration to sell a million, G.

  I ain’t down with the blunts, either, you know,

  I think a mind is a terrible thing to blow.

  I also ain’t riding with a gat in my skirt.

  To blow a brother away would cause

  me deep hurt.

  Don’t want to see another missing

  in action G, too many brothers missing

  in action see a wars a war it says, yeah

  that’s me, M.I.A., M.I.A. , M.I.A. on the

  Home front see. It’s as Out “A” Order

  as can be. Another one is claimed by the

  streets.

  I don’t own a jeep, or cruise the streets,

  it don’t mean I ain’t down with the

  knowledge though see, I’m a rebel with

  a cause that’s what they say about me, cuz

  on the QT, been there you see. I know about

  the pain, yeah it knawed at me, I know all

  about hypocrites see, I know about rage

  turned inside out and I know about not caring,

  without a doubt, but still you’ve got to be careful

  you see.

  Don’t want to see another missing

  in action G, too many brothers missing

  in action see, a wars a war it says, yeah

  that’s me, M.I.A., M.I.A., M.I.A. on the

  Home front see. It’s as Out “A” Order

  as can be. Another one is claimed by

  the streets.

  Now I’m not going to snow you or

  sell you short, I been well learned and

  I’m self-taught. It cost a lot to bring the

  truth see, to tear down walls of hypocrisy,

  to get into the ghetto and save a soul, to

  break a strong and demonic hold, to face

  down the spirits that have a grip, to stare

  a lie in the face and let it rip.

  Terror in our neighborhoods, sleepless

  nights it just ain’t no good. Tomorrow’s

  leaders caught in war in the hood, reigning

  terror just cuz you know you could. Mind

  games somebody’s being played. We’re

  slaying our own soldiers and the plans not

  laid. Pump it up, glorify. If we can’t deal

  with our problems we reach for the high.

  Don’t look now but the price is to die, to

  kill yourself or another, M.I.A. there goes

  another brother.

  Now the streets are not our only problem,

  tell. We’re following images, that can take

  us to hell. We follow that image, that’s a

  lie, and feel good, I’m here to tell ya

  Satan told us a lie. The biggest misconception

  is we think we’ve arrived, we turned our backs

  on the hood and tried to hide. But you could

  never build a strong foundation, unless the

  truth of the Gospel, spreads like a street sensation.

  So come on open your eyes, let the truth be.

  Cuz we’re also missing in action, you see.

 
If we want justice we’re gonna have to

  make our own. Put our sins aside and atone.

  Get serious this ain’t no comedy see, step

  aside don’t play out the image, don’t be

  hating, be careful see you don’t want to

  be rated. This ain’t the Nielsens this is

  real life see, life in the two seven G.

  Any change coming down is up to you

  and me. Cuz raw and on the line that’s the

  way I bring it see.

  Remember what I said about missing G.

  And although I may be a black female,

  I’ve been in the trenches and I’ve lived

  my own hell.

  Don’t want to see another missing

  in action G, too many brothers missing

  in action see, a wars a war it says, yeah

  that’s me, M.I.A., M.I.A., M.I.A. on the

  Home front see. It’s as Out “A” Order

  as can be. Another one is claimed by the

  streets.

  Another generation comes after you and me.

  Let’s live.

  Here’s some knowledge:

  Street wars and spiritual wars are linked.

  Evie Rhodes, aka Prophecy 1

  Prologue

  It was cold. Shivering icy needles jabbed at her body. The needles poked along starting with a slow crawl from the tips of her toes.

  The liquid feel of ice water rushed through her veins. It reminded her of the time she was ice-skating and had fallen through the ice, becoming submerged up to her neck. Boy, was she scared! Just as she was now.

  There was a dull ringing in her ears. It had squashed out all the other sounds. Maybe that was good because she could no longer hear for the shrieking, screaming confusion that was going on around her.

  God, it was so dark. She didn’t want to be in this place by herself. Her fingers were going numb. She floated as parts of her system shut down, distancing her from the searing pain that had rammed into her, knocking her to the ground.

  A scorching black jabbing pain had shot through her chest cavity, leaving a trail like a blazing forest fire. She grew warmer. She couldn’t feel the cold any longer. Up ahead of her was a bright light. She drifted toward the light so she could stay warm. She didn’t want to be in the dark alone.

  “Daddy!” she called, the sound coming out as though her voice were a whistling teakettle. It was the last time she ever spoke. A whoosh of air exhaled from her damaged lungs, exiting out onto the streets of Newark.

  She had a last lucid thought, one that skirted the edges of adulthood although she was a child. I’m only eight years old. I don’t want to die.

  She gave a last hushed breath, barely audible, and all sound and feeling ceased to exist for her.

  A moment ago the air had been still, but now the trees rustled with the spirit of the unknown, leaving the dead child as though she were no more than a carcass lying on the street.

  Chapter 1

  Aisha Jackson ran up to Jasmine. She tagged her. “You’re it,” she shouted.

  Jasmine stomped her foot, starting to count. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six . . .”

  The kids squealed, laughing. They ran to find hiding places. At the corner of the block several young men were hanging out.

  Standing on the corner of Muhammad Ali Boulevard and 18th Avenue as though he owned it, and everything within its range, was Temaine Perry, who was seventeen years old.

  He was a tall, rangy, wiry youth, with an edgy, moody personality. His dark edge was a source of attraction, but his restlessness was a magnet of trouble.

  Never one to miss a shot he said, “Man, Ballistic is trying to roll down on niggas. It’s time to drop that nigga. He can’t get no action on this turf. That punk is from Irvington. How does he think he’s gonna get a slice of Newark’s pie? This is Port Newark, baby. We is running things up in here.”

  Rico DeLeon Hudson was nineteen years old. He was serious, methodical, and as territorial as a panther, roaming the jungle. Although he was a good two inches shorter than Temaine’s six feet one inches, there was no doubt he was the leader. He was persona grata—respected, awed, and not to be played with.

  Rico had been dodging bullets, running the streets, and true to da game since he was twelve years old. He had also always been the leader.

  Everybody who was anybody on the streets knew Rico, who sported a nappy Afro that was always groomed to perfection. His face was angular, sleek, and his eyes emitted one truth, if one looked closely enough. That truth was death. It sprang from the depths of his eyes as lithe as a panther.

  His deception was the seeming innocence that oozed from him. He was a mother’s nightmare. A slick sheen of charm covered the veneer of who he really was.

  Underneath the veneer of innocence was a cold, cruel, calculating mind. He was of a generation that had to have it all, right now, by any means necessary. Coming in second was not an option.

  Rico stared at Temaine. They had been running the streets together since elementary school. They had taken a blood oath to always have each other’s back. Rico, who was always dressed in the latest sports gear, tugged at the collar of his leather jacket.

  He straightened the hood on the jacket and then stuffed his hands in his pockets. He stepped to the curb swearing under his breath.

  High up on a roof Spence Parkinson was dressed in black, complete with a black cap pulled low covering his forehead. He aimed the weapon with the scope at Rico. Rico stepped into sharp focus. Spence nodded his head slightly.

  Jasmine shouted even louder, “Five, four, three, two . . .” She ran toward the corner. Spence hoisted and balanced the weapon. He zoomed in. The scope teetered back and forth.

  Rico stooped down on the side of Temaine. The scope followed him. The red dot centered on his heart. Jasmine careened into Rico, shouting, “One!”

  Rico jumped back.

  The rifle kicked, and the blast let loose, ripping through the girl-child, Jasmine. Her arms spread like the wings of an angel, her body airborne. The blast lifted her off her feet, knocking her to the ground.

  Rico’s crew ducked and ran. Kids screamed. A high-pitched wail sliced through air. Rico did not know whose it was, but it shattered him in a deep secret place.

  The entire incident had happened in a split second. For an instant every bit of noise on the street became a deafening silence. The kids running up and down froze as though someone had shouted, “Freeze frame.”

  Rico rolled Jasmine over, staring into the dull expression on the little girl’s face. Though it was out of character for him, gently he cradled her in his arms, running a hand through her hair. Blood smeared all over his leather jacket, and the acrid smell of the blood and gunpowder drifted up into his nostrils.

  Temaine was bugging. What the hell was Rico doing? He tugged on Rico’s jacket. “Let her go, man! Come on! We’ve got to raise up out of here!”

  At the sound of Temaine’s voice, Rico recovered, jumping to his feet. They cleared the area as though they had never been in existence. In an instant they were ghost.

  A crowd gathered in the street. Jasmine lay faceup on the concrete, where Rico had dropped her. Marcus Simms, who was ten years old and Jasmine’s best friend, stared at her lying on the ground.

  He trembled as he saw her blood seep into the dirty gutter. He watched it trickle and spill down into the sewer at the edge of the curb.

  Her eyes were sightless. Her face was expressionless. She resembled a porcelain doll that had been abandoned in someone’s wake. Although the air had been still a moment ago, the trees now shook with an unknown spirit.

  Marcus stared into the trees, watching what amounted to a mist until it disappeared. He heard an unearthly shrieking that pierced the core of his being.

  Although he couldn’t quite make out the words that were being shrieked it sounded like something scraping across glass. The sound was high-pitched and shattering.

  From the
corner of his eye he saw a huge pair of black wings flapping, or he thought he did. He blinked. It was gone.

  He turned back to the shell that was Jasmine Davenport. Frozen in place, he did not move. Unconsciously he whispered, “Someone please call 911,” knowing that in his neighborhood that’s all it was, a call, a disembodied voice on a wire. There was no real savior for them on the other end of the line. That thought sent a tear chasing a spot of dirt down Marcus’s cheek.

  They were standing on shaky ground. That ground was Newark, New Jersey. The Central Ward. Newark’s Central Ward was legendary even among the dark and dangerous.

  The most curious thing about the Central Ward was the level of cohabitation.

  It was home to some of the most notorious, ruthless thugs breathing, as well as to those who were regular citizens struggling for upward mobility.

  And of course there was always the low income, those who were simply trapped. Not having any paper to spread around meant they were not captains of their own existence.

  They were the forgotten victims sitting on a patch of dirt that society at large had basically given up on, victims of those who knew how to drain money out of misery and were raking in the cream, at the expense of the downtrodden and defenseless.

  There were housing apartment complexes that you simply couldn’t go in. There were pockets of the Central Ward where death lurked in every corner and crevice. In almost every sound there was the click of a gun barrel, the sliding of a clip or laser rays that tracked human heart beats.