Messiah: A Jack Brown Thriller

By Joddy Eric Matthews

ZeruZeru was real. He was the devil. The asp in the garden of goodness and life. The thing under the bed, except it didn’t wait for the lights to go off or the covers to surround you. Only one thing rode with ZeruZeru where ever he went — Death. And now he was here, selling a terrifying new prescription Opioid named Messiah in the city and nothing was going to stop him. Not the drug gangs, the police, the Mayor or even the State's Governor. There was only one unknown force. One unaccounted variable.

The sexy iron-willed shadow warrior former CIA/JSOC Operative known only as Jack Brown. A primal force chiseled by Egyptian Gods and honed by the Uncle Sam, he answers only to the Governor. Like the Samurai of old, JB is feared by both the gangs and the police, his allegiance only to the protection of the weak. Immediately as the investigation begins, Jack and his equally mysterious and reclusive female handler Serena Noelle Hayes known as Command, are suddenly threatened by a deadly force from Jack's CIA Special Forces past. The murderous Ex-SAS mercenary Manchester and a children's fairy tale the agency referred to only as ZeruZeru . As thoughts of that past invade his present, Jack is forced to come to terms with the deep feelings he has for the Governor, the cunning and sexy, Angela Ali-White and his purely physical, but necessary encounters with the fiery, narcissistic Olivia Hayes. Increasingly the ever maddening love triangle threatens his number one charge, to protect the city at any cost.

As the mystery of Messiah widens and the deepening involvement of the cities political establishment starts to come into focus, Jack Brown struggles to decipher the difference between friend or foe, fearing that Messiah may not only be a result of a CIA mission gone wrong six years earlier, but also from a flawed experiment involving Serena, known simply as CTRL ALT DELETE.

Messiah's powerful grip tightens, as Jack is forced to confront a past life an ocean away, a love denied and the revelation that not only may the most pivotal moment of his past be a part of the new mystery, but those his cares for and has sworn to protect in the present. Unsure if the politicians that protect him, including Angela can be trusted or the new soldiers that fight by his side, Jack and Command must rely on all their skills to survive and protect the city and people they love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joddy Eric Matthews
• Release date: Jun 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370828265

Joddy Eric Matthews

Joddy Eric Matthews is an Emmy Award Winning Director, Writer, VFX Artist and Social Activist with a wide range of credits, including directing music videos and commercials for Honda, Tag Heuer, 2012 Olympics, USVision, Altria, Adult Swim, JC Penney Optical, BET, General Motors and Sherwin Williams. His films, The Bubble (BET, BBC), Black SciFi (Best of 2014, IndieWire must see list) webisode, Seeing Tomorrow and 2015’s No.3 box urban dramatic office hit film (Greater Cleveland Urban Film Festival Best Picture), #50Fathers are audience favorites. Currently he is serving as Senior Editor on the Caribbean TV comedy drama, Caribbean Girls NYC. Joddy’s anti-bullying documentary, Dance With Me (ICE Fest Jury Prize, Short, Sweet Fest), social justice short ReversAll, along with the upcoming criminal justice doc, One In The Chamber set focus to his commitment to social activism. His next film, The Heart of The Poet (2018) stars Tony Sirico (The Sopranos) and his Science Fiction Fantasy novel, LionsReign: The Bliss of Shadow and Fire hits the shelves soon. As an Adjunct Professor, guest lecturer and member of the Motion Capture and VFX Societies, Joddy regularly mentors African and Hispanic Americans on employment opportunities in the visual effects and motion picture industries.

Book preview

He was the devil.

The asp in the garden of goodness and life...

The thing under the bed—except it didn’t wait for the lights to go off to come for you.

Only one thing rode with him where ever he went — Death.

Then.

Fana watched as the sun rose above the white marble balcony and sunlight poured through the ivory French doors into the hotel bedroom. It quickly washed over the king sized bed and found her hazel eyes. Soon she felt its warmth on her ebony face. Shifting her weight slightly she turned her attention back to the huge man sleeping below her. Beads of sweat were quickly forming on his rippled Nubian arm, which was exposed to the mornings new light as she was.

In less than an hour the temperature in the room would be close to ninety degrees she mused, so if she was going to have him again, then she should probably wake him now. Or she could get started and hope he awoke at the right time, which was a pleasurable yet risky long shot. The huge bundle of muscle lay just below her quickening breathe, which only made her feel more like some primal animal and the man below her as some exotic prey. As her latest conquest, he was certainly a good partner and she had enjoyed herself immensely last night. Fana’s prey was, unlike most of the greedy and selfish men she had bed in Africa, very unselfish and attentive to her needs. Yes, her sleeping lover had put in work last night, so much so that she closed her eyes and smiled wondering somehow if she just might be the prey.

The sunlight was full on her face now as she momentarily got lost in the past. Indeed, she had some experience with this type of man while attending The University of Berlin and found them to be mostly giving lovers, which she didn’t normally prefer, but certainly appreciated them for a change of pace. They were much different than her usual Ethiopians suitors or even the Nigerians, whose need to dominant their conquest was often as necessary as their pursuit of a speedy climax.

The man beneath her was somewhere in between she pondered. He was different than most of the contracted security her father, the General had hired to protect her during her visit to the Congo, then to Mali and now Nigeria. He certainly wasn’t the first security man she had bed, in fact she saw it as a rite of passage for her protectors.

In fact, she made it a common practice to bed a select group of young boys from her clan, claiming their virginity and forever binding them to her. They belong to her, body and soul, forever. Surely they would not hesitate to give their lives for her. They comprised her inner security; her most trusted guardians even though they would be often called upon to watch over her conquest of men like the one inches below her.

His French was perfect and his enthralling tales of living and fighting as a youth in Kenya led no one to question if he wasn’t who he said he was. Besides, the long line of African countries who vied for his services as a contractor made his actual nationality irrelevant she thought. He was good. And as she had discovered last night, in more ways than one.

Fana continued to stare long and hard at his ebony chiseled physique with its many scars. Pain that seem to crisscross his body like some ancient river system on Mars, dry and alone, stopping the life bringing sunlight and casting deep shadows beyond their wake. There was so much pain written on his body. So many untold stories, too be discovered fortunately, by some other woman she thought.

Clearly her lover had spent some time in Europe or the United States as his grooming habits and the way he carried himself reminded her of the Blacks she had met from New York City. And while he didn’t seem to be a threat, she reminded herself many times that he was somebody that she needed to keep an eye on. What better way to do that then to have sex with him, she mused?

Sigh.

The tingle in her thighs had drawn down to an inch. The mood was gone. Poor unlucky guy, maybe if he had awakened while she hovered above him, then they could have had another go at it. But alas, her day must start she decided. Fana Shala’nawasi, daughter to the Ethiopian Warlord, General Lord Michael Benin Shala’nawasi, had an important mission and sex with a hired hand, even one as talented as the ebony God below her, could not be allowed to get in the way.

Calmly pulling the sheets back, Fana leapt up and bounced toward the bathroom, grabbing her cellphone as she went. The door closed behind her as the sound of water rushing out of the shower is heard.

Alpha One Report

The man’s eyes opened instantly. He responded to the commanding male voice in his ear by speaking in a quiet, measured tone, This is Alpha One Rocking Chair, I have eyes on target. Rolling out of the bed, he grabbed his cellphone just in case Fana came out of the bathroom suddenly. Better it looked as though he was on the phone then to have her see him talking to no one. Roger that Alpha One, stay on target. Wolf Pack is on alert ready one and will go open door once you have eyes on prize. Alpha One loosened his joints, testing his muscles as he looked around the room for his boxers. He acknowledged, Roger that, Rocking Chair. The voice in his ear then became friendlier. Slept with her you did? Was it a question or a statement, Alpha One wondered. Was there an infrared equipped Drone flying somewhere above Abuja watching his target, including last nights’ exploits, providing Rocking Chair with Intel?

He thought carefully about his response. Was this a test? Of his loyalty? To see if the months of being undercover had taken him off mission. She’s got a really nice pair of legs Rocking Chair. He joked, waiting for the response. That she does Alpha One, too bad their tied to a sociopath, the voice on the other end sounded comfortable, friendly. Yeah, too bad, mused Alpha One.

Rocking Chair shot back, his voice sounding amused, Tell me Alpha One, did you give her the full Soul Brother Number One treatment or was it Jamaica all over?

Alpha One bristled, he didn’t like talking about his sexual exploits, and as far as he was concerned it wasn’t part of the job. He had learned long ago that trying to Kill it or Beat it up was a fool’s mission best left for porn films and that the mark of a good lover was applying the right amount of attention to what each woman needed. Some needed or wanted it beat up, some wanted it carried for, whispered to... Loved. The trick was to figure out which woman you were dealing with and apply the correct method at the correct time. He didn’t find any shame in that his life as a soldier had given him the opportunity to get much practice in figuring it out. And that he was getting pretty good at his technique.

But the myth that he had to leave every woman satisfied to the point of eternal worship made him angry as it was as much about the color of his skin as his performance in the bed. Fana for instance, didn’t seem to be anything but reasonably satisfied with his performance. Although, it was hard to stay in this character and focus on having sex he thought to himself. And the fact that it seemed that every one of her inner guard had lost their virginity to the statuesque sister made the thought of joining her Harem, even more dubious. It’s 2012 Rocking Chair; the Shaft shit is played out. He remarked to the voice in his ear, just before Fana appeared out of the bathroom, smart phone in hand, her short reddish brown natural hair wrapped in a towel and wearing a very expensive silk robe. Her long legs lead the way toward Alpha One, as she paused her conversation just long enough to turn her attention toward to the man she knew as Mangone. Lowering the phone to her waist she spoke.

Let’s not make this weird, okay? Tons of fun, it was great. Now get dressed and get back to your duties Mister Mangone.

Fana returned to her call as Alpha One or the man known as Mister Mangone, nodded then grabbed his clothes, exiting the hotel suites front door soon afterward. The guards outside her room dared not acknowledge him as he glanced backward toward Fana. Just before the door shut he caught a last image of her, still on the phone, hurriedly getting dressed.

He wanted to remember her this way. As the sexy, strong-willed daughter of a dictator. For most likely Alpha One thought, a few hours from now, Fana Shala’nawasi, daughter to the Ethiopian Warlord General Lord Michael Benin Shala’nawasi, would be dead.

OF WEED AND BLOOD

Now.

Damn.

Desmond heard the words escape from his mouth and he wondered to himself why he had said them out loud. They were thoughts in his head. Only meant for himself. To say them out loud was stupid he thought.

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder why the smell bothered him so much. It wasn’t that he knew where the pungent aroma came from or what it meant in terms of how long he had to live. It occurred him that in over twenty some years in the game, he couldn’t ever remember smelling this before.

That bothered him.

As a Heroin dealer of some importance, he’d killed his fair share of people before. So the fact that he’d never smelled a fragrance like this before was really bothering him. He turned his head slightly to the left, to look into the living room, to see his childhood friend, Bunchie, lying in his favorite armchair with most of his face missing. Like he did with most things in life, he wished he could ask the large light-skinned man about the smell. Bunchie was smart, a lot smarter than he was.

Most likely, he would probably have asked him if he thought that was the most important shit to be worried about at the moment. If he was still alive, Desmond thought to himself.

Unfortunately, Bunchie was directly across from the wall where the first shape charge went off. It was an outer wall and the building, being like many in eastern Cleveland, was built in the twenties or thirties from heavy brick and mortar. He wasn’t sure how much Semtex the invaders used, but he could definitely see where it blew a clean, nearly round hole in the eighteen-inch-thick wall. When the breach happened, Bunchie caught a face full of brick and whatever else was in the eighty-year-old wall. The assault team then rolled in a concussion grenade, which blinded him, the three girls who mixed product, who just happened to be chill’in on the sofa, and most of his crew who was in the room.

Even after all that, Bunchie wasn’t dead, but it slowed down his response time so much that when the body armored young red head with the shotgun swung into the opening, he didn’t stand much of a chance.

Desmond was in the back room when the first charge went off and he rushed toward the rear door just beyond the kitchen, grabbing his bitch – a well-oiled AK-47, and stepped into the kitchen barely in time see the wall, which the back office shared with the kitchen area vaporized by a thermite grenade and what looked to be an army stepping through the new hole created by the four-thousand-degree oxide explosion. It literally melted the re-enforced steel hardened wall door into slag.

He had just managed to pull back the AK’s slide bolt as the first bullet hit his bulletproof vest. He felt two more rounds slam into the vest’ lower metal plates just before he passed out.

The assault team dealt with Desmond’s crew with surgical precision. The money counters, the women who packaged the product, his soldiers, and his dogs. Everyone. Sure he had some guys who were ex-Army, pretty much every gang or crew did these days. And against other drug dealers or gangs, their Specialist or PFC (Private First Class) skill sets and what they managed to teach the street soldiers was enough to get by. But this crew came in like SEAL Team Six or something he thought. Eva Klaus, a long legged, redheaded woman, who had previously exhausted her shotgun on Bunchie, the girls and three of his soldiers, quickly tossed her long gun aside and turning over a cash counting table, took up a sniper position with her Siig 45mm.

Her position gave her a commanding view of the hallway leading to the back room and the kitchen area once the grenade created its massive hole. She just unleashed on anyone who came down the hallway or who entered the kitchen.

Including me, he thought.

Just before he passed out, Desmond caught a glimpse of the leader of the hit team, a tall, muscular Black man with cocoa skin and blond dyed hair. He reminded him of a slender Dwayne Johnson, except not as tall and maybe a shade darker in skin tone. He looked like one of the European soccer players Desmond had seen on ESPN once.

Hey, dude is on fire man!

Desmond squinted upward, the glare from the old kitchen light searing his eyes. The voice came from a slim, sixteen or seventeen-year-old light skinned boy, as he loomed over Desmond’s broken body. Although a clearly a boy, he wore the full military body armor like someone accustom to combat. Pointing his AR-15 at the five foot eleven black man lying in front of him to further let his comrades know who he was referring to.

No shit. Desmond thought to himself. This time he wasn’t sure if the words came out of his mouth or he just said it only to himself. He was getting weaker. His eyelids were heavy and getting harder to keep open as he saw a blurry red image push past the young boy and get closer to him. The figure studied him then probed his side with his rifle barrel. As Desmond’s eyes cleared up slightly he got a good look at the man above him. It was the brother with the cocoa skin and blond dyed hair. He sported a Red Manchester United futbol jacket. A Black man wearing a soccer jacket wasn’t the type of guy anyone around here would soon forget and since the brother with blond hair thing went out with Sisko and Dennis Rodman, he was positive this brother wasn’t a local.

Aghhh! He cried out.

The pain flooded into Desmond’s brain. The sound spewed out of his mouth as a whimpered moan. The shock of being shot and his focus on the smell had dulled the pain of the bullet in his right lung. It was getting harder to breathe. The probing of the rifle barrel brought everything back though.

Bloke caught some lead off his armor, ricocheted into his upper thigh. He had some weed in his pocket, must have sparked. Nothing to worry about mate. The man said. His thick London\Jamaican accent definitely spoke to the international picture the man and his army painted. Desmond wondered to himself who they where and why they were knocking over a small time drug dealer like him.

Yo Man U, why it stink man? The boy shot back. Now he was definitely from Cleveland, Desmond thought to himself. The man in Red straightened up as he looked back to Desmond. He hated being called Man U by ignorant Americans. He thought of shooting the boy on the spot, but took a breath instead. His anger subsided quickly. The weed, flesh and blood are smoldering in his pants mate. Can’t you see he’s cooking? A slow simmer really. Man U said.

Man, that’s fucked up! The young man said in a snorted half energetic chuckle. He added, Yo, he awake Man U!

Man U shot back. Yes, he is mate. And while the wound in his leg is not too deep and certainly survivable, the bullet in his side is definitely not. He’ll bleed out in a short time. You can get back to your job boy.

The boy turned and walked toward the other men who have, upon discovering Desmond’s stash, begun loading the pounds of money and drugs into military grade five pound camo gray buckets. Desmond watches as the boy grabs a bucket and takes it over to the newly created entrance in the front room. He hands it to Hector, a short, older Latin man, who attaches a harness to the buckets’ handles and loads it onto a cable system. The bucket disappears quickly out of the window and down the cable pulley wire system that seems to be anchored to window on the building next door. Desmond’s eyes bring him back into the kitchen area where the man in the Red jacket waits. His eyes still fixed upon Desmond.

Eva leans quickly into the Kitchen, looking at Man U, her Glock still smoldering. Police are 4 mics out. She calmly stated, her red hair being the last thing to disappear from the doorway.

Desmond didn’t see where the first bullet came from. He just felt the searing sensation of its entrance into his right lung. His blood bathed the kitchen floor in a dark reddish blue wash. Shock had kept him going but he realized now that his back and legs were numb. The pain was excruciating. Now on his side, staring at the ceiling, he could feel the cold tile on his head and arm and the wetness of his own blood soaking his hair. As the man in the red Man U jacket appeared over him, he smiled upward and thought to himself.

It took a dude like you to take me out! He stated, laughing uncontrollably as a puzzled look crossed his executioner’s face. The Hood ain’t never gonna forget me! He blurted out as the bullet ripped through his front skull and hit the old hardwood sub floor below the cheap tile before bouncing back up into his skull. It made an awful mess. Man U looked down at him. The smoke billowing from his custom H&K G36 assault rifle.

Don’t suppose they will mate.

MRS ROBINSON

Governor. What a pleasure! Remarked Cleveland’s Lt. Mayor Travis O’Bannon, his meaty, sweat caked hand extended for the Honorable Governor Angela Ali-White to accept. She hated the fat man as much as she loathed Cleveland’s Mayor, as he usually wore his emotions on his face, something which as a politician often spelled career suicide. But with O’Bannon, his lack of self-control bordered on the fatal. Something she couldn’t tolerate, especially considering the groups previous endeavors. Angela offered her hand and quickly pulled it back as the short, round man smiled. Always good to see you Travis, she remarked before turning toward Mayor Neal McConnell who stood at the middle of the House of Blues’ Foundation room with three other people. They’re small talk halted once she walked in with Neal turning his attention fully to her and her bodyguard Bruce who quickly surveyed the room before nodding to his boss that it was okay for her to fully enter.

Governor Angela Ali-White was as striking a beauty as a figure of today’s black social elite. She was in fact anything but. Like her father, a little known civil rights attorney, Zeke Ali and her mother, a minor Trinidad track and fielder sprinter, Kimi Duncan, Angela was a self-made woman. Anyone who knew the Governor knew she never had it easy. She was a fighter, always had been. She attended night law school at Cleveland State’s Marshall School of Law, graduating in the top thirty percent of her class. Her late husband, Captain Herschel White was so enthralled with her beauty; a cross of Vanessa Williams’ captivating looks with Angela Bassett’s piercing presence, topped off with her mom’s island girl nappy hair that he threatened to go AWOL unless she promised to go on a date with him.

Less than a year later, they were married, with Angela leading the life of an Army wife, while practicing Defense Law to keep the lights on in their small East Blvd home. Even after Herschel’s death in Operation Enduring Freedom, Angela, who by this time was a partner at a well-known but small criminal defense firm, was trying to run for State Senate as an independent with little to no support or funding.

She won.

Now she was the Governor. And everything stopped when she came into a room.

Mayor McConnell quickly crossed the lavish crimson and gold room to greet her. Angela! Thank you so much for coming. I know it was short notice, but I really felt we needed to discuss the events at hand in person. Remarked the tall Irishman with boyish good looks and red hair that would make Ron Howard jealous. His arm swung upward as Angela wrapped hers around his. I thought we had ended all our associations with The Project Neal? How did this happen? Angela slyly asked, making sure to not lose the smile on her face as they walked toward the group of businesspersons and city leaders.

The duo joined the group of people in the middle of the room as Neal quickly disengaged his arm and poured a glass of bourbon straight and handed it to Angela. Now that we all are here, let’s get to the matter at hand. We here represent the last of the cities leadership that was involved in the ill-fated Project Reclamation. The last of the cursed as it stands. He stated while each member of the group took turns greeting Ohio’s Governor. The smiles quickly turned to frowns as the group turned its attention back to the Mayor.

We got into this because you said this would help the city, not turn it into some battleground Neal! Exclaimed an older olive skin dark haired Mediterranean looking woman, the noted arts philanthropist Barbara Nolan, her dark brown Retro Superfuture frames sliding off her nose slightly as she chided the Mayor who although he stood a good foot above her, looked more like an embarrassed school boy under her scolding gaze. I understand your concerns Barbara, that’s why I called this meeting. Angela watched attentively and took a sip of her glass as the Chief of Police, Philip Thompson spoke up, We’re containing the damage and right now it’s confined to mostly high crime areas so the news hasn’t got around to calling it a drug war yet. Barbara cut him off, You think I give a shit what some suburban cunt sees on the news? This asshole is blackmailing us! The Mayor jumped in,