Project Terror

By Jamal Lewis

In a street war, there's always a body to be discovered.

As a dedicated monster, Lamar Dunken, presents the perfect image of a street terrorist. He knows how to respond when a desperate crisis threatens his operation, and he exacts horrifying tactics to get things under control.

FBI Special Agent Livingston is faced with the serious task of investigating Lamar's tactics while connecting killings start to terrorize Philadelphia and the surrounding suburbs. Also, a violent criminal locked behind bars a year before Lamar was even born is back on the streets and looking for him. Lamar is forced to call on his deepest strength to face his accusers and ensure that the values that he holds most dear will survive. 

The nightmare has begun.

Again.

And, over again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Prodigy Gold Books
• Release date: Oct 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781939665218

Jamal Lewis

Jamal Lewis was born in Philadelphia, a former boxer, and military brat. He pursued a writing career while serving a federal prison term after allowing his life to take a terrible turn resulting in him being shot four times. His debut crime thriller, PROJECT TERROR (Prodigy Gold Books, 2017) is set to release Halloween 2017 on his birthday.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

January 1990

Mason had never seen a prison where inmates could lean right up against the wall surrounding it without getting a bullet between the eyes. He mentioned it to the correctional officer they called, Matlock, as the two of them made small talk. They were murderer and cop perched in the sun, leaning against a wall used for handball. They were underneath a gun tower, and a gray concrete wall surrounding A, B, C, and D blocks. Both men looked at the athletic field used for bloody prison sports. A few hundred men, braving the harsh January winds. Watching the flag football game: one team blue, the other yellow. No pads in sight—on every down someone pounded to the snow. That was the Graterford Penitentiary way.

Besides getting out their aggression in a legal fashion, Mason said, you know what else they're engaging in?

Matlock said, It's called football. What the hell are you on? He lifted his eyebrows.

This was the dumbest guard Mason had ever encountered. His success at busting inmates selling drugs, producing hooch, and engaging in gambling because inmates gave him tips. Mason had been in the fourth year of his seventeen-and-a-half to thirty-four-year sentence. Matlock being called Matlock after the TV attorney was blasphemy.

They're delusional—downright out-of-touch with reality—playing in the Super Bowl, Mason said, pretending they're in sunny New Orleans at the Superdome. They don’t see the fucking snow on the ground. Both teams think they're the mighty San Francisco 49ers.

Matlock said, They ain't worth a damn. Can't even get a dive play right.

Mason shook his head. Idiot. He turned to size-up the guard's profile, the bill of his fitted cap curved around a round face. Gray shirt with matching epaulets that matched his pants; radio and flash light hooked to his belt. Mason looked at his size, eye-to-eye with Matlock at six-two. From there, where Mason went straight up and down with athletic cuts hidden under prison browns, Matlock was fifty-pounds heavier. Most of the weight surrounded the guard's waist. His shirt fitting him like the skin on a sausage. Disgusted, Mason turned back to the 49ers.

He watched a sheisty black guy go deep for a pass and get clipped going up for the ball, mowed down by another black guy on defense. The few white boys—speed dealers and bikers—who had the balls and the weight, were linemen and punched each other each chance they got: every play. No Hispanics on either roster. They spectated and bet prison currency—packs of cigarettes—on the winners. Not the two Puerto Ricans doing laps around the field: clockwise, because in every jail inmates did things backward. The same two ran ten miles every day, along with twenty sets of pull-ups and dips. No weights, they needed to be lean and quick.

Ricardo Suarez and Luna Gonzalez, Pretty Ricky and Big Lu, wife and husband, both built like jockeys, both serving LIFE for murder. They hadn't done their usual ten miles, walking along the fence to observe the game, they had Mason's full attention. He had his eyes locked onto them.

After they settled amongst their kind, Mason said, Some people are making plans to escape. What if I told you when and how?

Matlock stared at him with his signature raised brows, his way to judge if a convict was telling the truth or giving him a crock-of-shit. Who're you talking about?

There's a price for everything, Matlock, Mason said with his eyes still on the game.

I get your weed in here.

And you're paid well for that, sir. Now, what I need, Mason said, facing him, is leeway to do me. Some peace. This place is the worse. Most of these muthafuckas are violent prisoners with no morals. They need the police's feet on their necks. I don't.

Matlock said, Coming from a convicted murderer on his third state bid: did one federal for being a felon possessing a weapon, and a half dozen county bids.

You've done your homework?

Yes.

Then you know I'm not like that anymore. Look at those vicious derelicts. I'm not all that violent, perhaps a recidivist, but when they parole me, guess what, I'll be a model citizen.

Matlock raised one eyebrow. So your rat now?

Not at all, Mason said, I have to be here a long time and ensuring my future and yours. You stop a prison break, make sergeant, advance your career to lieutenant on the express train. I get peace of mind by you not bothering me. Let me run my business, keep me from working some shitty job for twelve-cents-an-hour.

Matlock furrowed his eyebrows. Tell me something: How'd you get arrested? I mean the specifics.

We got time for that?

You need to make the time because I'm not buying you rolled over and want the cheese I set aside for rats. And if I hear a lie, I’ll lock you under the jail. While you're there, I'll catch the guys trying to escape.

OK...put that way...four years ago...

...Fathead steered his white Corolla into a parking space in the middle of Fifty-Second Street, just off of Kingsessing Avenue. Part of the luxury of living in Southwest Philadelphia was the closeness of the often rivaling neighborhoods. That allowed men and women to skate back to the safety of their parts in the event something popped off. Philadelphia wasn’t sectioned by notorious Blood and Crip gang territories. One's drug turf was as protected, though. A fact known to Fathead when he hung his head out of the car, and yelled, What's up, ya'll straight? to two passing crack addicts.

We got what ya'll looking for, right here, Juice added from the passenger seat. We got them nick-rocks the size of jelly beans.

This wasn't Fathead's of Juice's block, but street gospel had it that Slam had the block doing big numbers, and they wanted parts. Slam's right-hand men, Mossburg and Roc Wilda were throwing a huge Christmas cabaret. Figuring they’d be busy, Fathead graced Fifty-Second Street with his presence. He hoped the block would be devoid of dealers, and they'd have a Merry-fucking-Christmas.

Who the hell is that? Neta asked herself within earshot of J-Cee, as they moved at a smoker's speed down Fifty-Second Street. Although solicited by Fathead, she suspected that he and his side-kick were undercover cops or youngins' out to burn them with dummy-rocks.

That's that nigga, Fathead. He be selling that bullshit up on Fifty-Eighth Street. We ain't buying that shit, said J-Cee, a smoker who used to push Xanax and Valium on this block. The crack epidemic stopped a demand for his drug of choice.

Neta and J-Cee passed Kingsessing and bent the corner at Woodland Avenue. They spotted Slam rolling on the block in his big-body Caprice.

Aye. Aye, Neta yelled, waving and bouncing from one foot to the other as if she was bare feet and the ground was hot. She continued to wave until she had his attention.

What's up, Neta? What you need? Slam asked, pulling to the curb. And hurry before them people ride-down on us.

Aight, give me six for twenty-five, she said as she reached into her pocket and retrieved five crumpled five-dollar bills.

While they made their transaction, J-Cee stood behind Neta watching them and looking for the police. They both knew their roll.

Aye, Slam, J-Cee said, you know them boys from Fifty-Eighth Street posted up around the corner. The same ones you told to stay from around here. J-Cee hated dudes selling bad coke, and he wanted them to disappear.

Around what corner? asked Slam in disbelief. Fathead? He assumed that because of an earlier incident. Slam had warned him with a gun in his face, not to catch sales on his strip. That should’ve sent a message, but obviously not.

Yup, on Fifty-Second Street sitting in a white car. They tried to serve us that bullshit they are selling up there on Fifty-Eighth.

Aight, thanks, Slam replied, pulling into traffic.

Slam opted to ride pass Fifty-Second and circled three blocks to see where a white car was parked. Identifying his target, Slam parked up the street and made his way back on foot. Like a lion stalking its prey, he took calculated steps to approach the intruder's car. With murderous aggression, he cocked his Smith and Wesson 10mm pistol. Slam's eyes glanced up and down the block. He didn't see residents out on their porches or in their windows. Slam had to be certain, no one saw the two men have a little accident. He'd been arrested for a shooting last month and was awaiting trial on those charges. The consequences would be disastrous if the police were called. Two cars behind his targets, he heard them talking.

Man, this bitch sucked a nigga to sleep. Then, sucked a nigga awake. Fathead smiled re-living the moment.

Damn, I didn't know Shorty was like that, Juice replied.

Yeah, she... Fathead was cut off by countless rounds zipping by his head.

The shots caught Juice in the temple. His head exploded sending blood and brain matter across the passenger side window. Beautiful. A miniature Big Bang, no? Fathead tried to push open the door to knock Slam to the ground. Slam kicked the door slamming it shut, locking Fathead in like a rock stuck in a hard place.

I told your bitch-ass to stay from around here, Slam stated, frowning.

Fathead looked into the killer's eyes and regretted peddling crack on Fifty-Second Street. Without an ounce of remorse, Slam squeezed off three rounds into Fathead's face. When the flying bullets stopped an echo followed, and then, an eerie silence. Slam took off, bending the corner, doubling back through the nearest gangway, stashing his gun in an old bar-b-cue grill behind an abandoned house. In the distance, the sound of sirens rose, as he made it back to his car.

Leaping into the Caprice, he roared out of the parking space and made a U-turn. At the first intersection, he made a left turn. He planned to stay off of the main streets. Police sirens continued to scream in the distance and he knew because the area was labeled a high crime area, it was likely that the police were only a block or two away from the scene. The last thing he wanted to do was drive right by a police car.

Had someone seen his well-known face?

Could they have jotted his license plate number?

Young people who sold drugs flirted with jail and death; Fathead and Juice experienced the latter. The killer needed to get away. He doubted the men were identifiable, and most dealers didn't carry ID. No family searched for them, Slam concluded, because families gave up on street hoodlums. They didn't go day-by-day worrying where a thug was, or if they’d come home.

Slam parked and found a pay phone to page a goon to get him.

His light complexion blanched. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. Perspiration dotted his forehead. His wet shirt felt like he'd jumped into a pool. He remained focused on the road but was at a STOP sign at Fifty-Ninth Street when a cop car turned out of a small street and pulled right behind him. He flipped his left turn signal on at Sixtieth Street and turned. The cruiser followed him.

After zigzagging through streets for a mile, with the police behind him, flashing lights blinded him.

Tapping the pedal, he made a left onto Lindbergh Boulevard. Smart men didn't try beating the rollers in a high-speed chase. He knew he had a better chance on foot while on familiar ground. He banged his foot on the gas, racing to the first small one-way street. Turning right, he jammed on the brakes and hopped out of the car just ten-feet from the corner. The police cruiser bent the corner and rammed into the back of Slam's Caprice, forcing the cruiser's air bags to deploy. The sound of steel on steel tore through the night, encouraging the killer to run harder towards the home of one of his many conquests, Kesha.

He took two fences without touching them and burst out of the gangway. The flashing lights that were behind him moments ago, were nowhere in sight. He heard sirens. His heart raced a mile a minute as he reached Bartram Village Housing Projects and made it to Kesha's building. He leaned on the buzzer of the intercom.

Come on, bitch, open the fucking door, he mumbled, looking around for police.

Who the fuck you about to let in here? Kesha's boy toy asked.

She ignored him. He was out of the bed, threw on his boxers and jeans before the front door swung open.

Slam fell through the threshold as if he had out run a pack of wolves. The wolves wore Philadelphia PD uniforms. He didn't even look twice at Kesha, who wore nothing but a black button-up. Under normal circumstances, Slam would have recognized a woman fresh off of a dick. This was not normal.

What's up, Slam? she asked with an earnest worry in her tone.

I need to stay here for a minute, he answered.

Damn, Kesha, you gonna let a nigga in here? Kesha's date asked. What the fuck you on? The man stood at the entrance of the bedroom with no shirt on; his Tims unlaced around his feet.

Slam took in the physique and height of the unfamiliar man. He registered him as little to no threat. A mistake, because the scowl on the man's face claimed he had unfinished business and was ready to kill. Slam's street sense kicked in as he caught the awkward way the guy stood, showing he was armed.

Jamie, could you please leave for now? I'll see you later, Kesha said of a desire to diffuse the Mother of All Bombs before it exploded in her apartment. She had to help Slam.

You'll see me later? pleaded Jamie.

Nigga, you heard me.

Slam touched Kesha's arm. She looked up into his face and read something that froze her tongue. No offense, bruh, but I need to get off of the street? Y'all can do y'all. I ain't into pussy-blocking. I'll kick back in the living room and watch TV. Slam was assertive with little aggression in his tone.

Kesha, for a second, looked at Jamie desperately trying to read his intentions. She didn't know him as well as she knew Slam.

Despite wanting to sleep with Kesha, Jamie said, Nah, homie, I'mma bounce. Without another word, he slipped back into the darkness of Kesha's bedroom. Minutes later he emerged dressed, gun clutched in his hand. He gave Slam a terse glance and walked out of the door.

OUTSIDE JAMIE WAS PISSED at Kesha's audacity. He thought that’s how dudes get killed. When he reached the safety of the inside of his car, he sat his 1911 Colt 45 pistol under the driver's seat, ignited his BMW, and sped away.

Jamie was so pissed off, he barreled through multiple STOP signs and red lights, stupidly ignoring the heavy presence of the PPD, patrolling the Southwest streets. Eventually, his luck had run out as he made a California roll through a STOP sign with a cop car parked on the corner which activated its overhead lights. Damn. His adrenaline rushed as he thought of the .45 under his seat. He flirted with the idea to kill the cops. He pulled over because he was legal. Upon doing so, he watched his side view mirror as the cop emerged from his vehicle. Jamie

Reviews for Project Terror

[msgtmackel · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Too much violence and profanity for me. Not my type of book.