The G.E.U.: (Gang Extermination Unit)

By Conrad Queen

Can Jeff Jones, Decker Alcott, Stacy Williams, and their gathered colleagues and citizens, find the courage and skill to rise up to the criminals and gangs terrorizing their city?  The group is up against a leadership that is tolerant, a population that is frustrated, and a criminal element that is vicious.  The city, Austland, in the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Queen Publishing
• Release date: Jan 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9780996126816

Conrad Queen

Conrad is a product of the South Bronx, New York. A recently retired First Sergeant, United States Army, and current employee of New York City Transit, he holds an Associates Degree in GS/CounterTerrorism from American Military University. Conrad is married with three children, resides in Suffolk County NY, and spends his free time as a writer and exercise enthusiast.

Book preview

The G.E.U.

(Gang Extermination Unit)

Conrad Queen 1SG USA (Ret.)

Copyright © 2019 by Conrad Queen

Created and Produced in the United States of America

Queen Publishing

ISBN 978-0-9961268-1-6

All rights reserved solely by the author.  The author guarantees that all contents are original and do not infringe upon the legal rights of any other person or work.  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the permission of the author.

For America’s last defenders . . .

Secret operations are essential in war; upon them the army relies to make its every move

Sun Tzu, ‘The Art of War’

ONE

Is violence the answer?  Decker stared straight ahead, looking at the bare brick wall of their planning room.  It was quiet, empty now.  There was a slight reverb to his voice, like when talking in an empty apartment or house.  He and his co-founding partner sat in office type chairs, leaning back, contemplating plans.

A colleague of mine . . . a long time ago, not an outwardly dangerous person . . . said, ‘nothing solves a problem like the direct application of violence’.  He let the thought hang for a long moment while he arose and crossed the room to look out the large paned window.  I still spend a good amount of time turning that over internally.  After a few moments of rubbing his chin, the otherwise boring accountant ran a hand through his straight hair, cut close on the sides.  He returned to the table, grasped a long neck beer bottle, brought it down again. 

Moving back to the window he lightly smacked his lips, savored the taste of the liquid.  When you’re a kid, bullies don’t stop until you fight back.  Or they get confronted by a bigger bully.  I’m a Christian, but all that ‘kumbaya’ stuff is crap.  As supposedly ‘humane’ beings . . . some of us spiritually guided, a few of us God-fearing . . . we advocate for peace in the morning, and then we turn right around and hypocritically commit violence by nightfall.  We celebrate the Prince of Peace every December twenty-fifth, by summer we’re at war.

Are you about to preach to me?  Jeff spoke without looking at his friend. He too sipped, but from a tumbler filled with a fine smoky whiskey.  There was no reaction from Decker, so he continued the thought.  Peace is the reward of those willing to fight for it.  That’s how I see it.  Jeff harrumphed, Peace is the result of a decisive military victory.

Decker took the pause as a chance to cut in: Are you about to bore me with your pagan philosophy? 

You have a problem with philosophy?  Jeff only very slightly cracked a smile.

I’m gonna get going.  Meeting up with—

Jeff ignored him and went on.  Contemplate this: Would slavery in this, the former American Republic, have ended without the horrific violence and carnage of the Civil War?  He paused, though the question felt rhetorical.  Decker just listened.  Men have fought and waged wars since creation—

Decker quickly interrupted: Creation?  Oh, so you do believe in God! Welcome my brother!

—since the beginning of TIME, he emphasized the word ‘time’, for as little as reputation, for as much as a continent . . . for as vaporous as YOUR sacred religion and God.  We have killed for cows, land, water, pride, women even . . . and money . . . especially money.  Men have killed sometimes just for the hell of it.

Another religious reference. Decker interjected again; Jeff smirked without stopping.

But we have also killed, ironically, to survive; killed to protect life, and killed for ideals; men have killed for their family, their tribe, their king, their country, and our—well, YOUR God.  Jeff sipped again, let his statement hang.  He rose, wandered to the window and looked out at Striver’s Row, a street named after an area in a neighborhood in Former America, a community of people moving up the economic ladder.  The street was normal, calm, people about, traffic was light.  A young couple sat on a bench at the bus stop in the early sundown light.

What incredibly terrible beings we are.

TWO

So, you want this?  To be with us?  The rep doesn’t come from being nice!  We hit, we hit hard.  Anybody, anytime. Nate looked around, Anywhere. With that, he spotted a young man who had refused to acknowledge the Boyd Avenue Gang, who had won praise from local community activist Jeff Jones for resisting the street life and was college bound.  The statement in a neighborhood gazette had irked the street thugs.  Nate pointed at the young man who did not want the street life.

The one at the corner.  With headphones on.  K Black turned to walk away, didn’t even look at Nate, who picked the target.  The street lieutenant in turn went over to a group of three unpredictable and aspiring gang toughs and pointed at the young man, who may have been still a teenager.  They acknowledged and started across the two-way street to the intersection, ignoring traffic which had to suddenly stop to avoid running them over.

Meanwhile, Heather, a shy teenager, watched the group come across the street.  Her heartbeat quickened with the intuition that something was wrong.  She had seen the street guys in the city engage in all manner of crime and assaults, and their approach caused her stomach to drop, she could sense that something bad was imminent.  Heather looked around quickly to see who their target may be, and an older teen boy, olive complexion with wavy hair, crossing the street from the other direction was nodding his head to whatever he was listening to in his headphones.  She held her breath.

The young man, immersed in his headphone world of music, didn’t notice the group approaching him.  As they sprinted up behind him, one of the Boyd Avenue Gang wanna-be’s cocked back and threw the weight of his body behind a punch to the side of the young man’s face.  The blow exploded into his world and his headphones were knocked off, jolting him to reality.  The other two punched him also, yelling ‘Boyd Avenue Killers!’ repeatedly, and then kicking him when he fell.  Immediately there was screaming as Heather and other people rushed to clear themselves of the beat-down.  The young man begged for mercy, pleading, ‘What’d I do?  What’d I do!’.  He curled into a ball, protecting his head with his arms as they stomped at him viciously.  ‘Respect K Black m*****f****r!’

To add a finish to the beating, one of the thugs produced a knife, and jabbed the young man several times in his torso, and he screamed terribly.  Blood began to soak his clothing as he moaned and screamed, while the three thugs took off still yelling ‘Boyd Avenue Killers!’  In less than a minute they were gone, and the people cowering in various places reappeared, shocked at the sudden burst of violence, and the sight of a young man bleeding profusely in front of them.

Among the onlookers, young Heather descended into a brokenhearted sob.  Yet another act of violence in the streets, a regular occurrence that no one could seem to stop.  No law enforcement, no appeals to compassion or decency, no fear of retribution seemed to halt or slow down these incidents.  It was fearsome to think that she would have to continue navigating this world, all one-hundred and ten pounds of herself, surrounded by vicious hoodlums who could be so callous.

After a while, an ambulance arrived, and she remained in shock as the young man was placed inside.  Finding the strength to continue her day, she proceeded to the next street and boarded the bus that would take her home, hopefully it could get down Striver’s Row without a problem.

THREE

Ṫwo birds at play in a tree, two small flowers blooming quietly at the edge of a park, an elderly couple slowly shuffling arm in arm, and on an unremarkable bench, two young people with smiles.  As the movement of the seasons bringing spring to summer, crested the hill of seasonal change, a young man and woman sat at this bus stop, chatting about the frivolities of youth.  As they amused one another with witty flirtatious talk, the two birds above them playfully fluttered away, replaced by several more, all tweeting musically.  Squirrels scampered about with found prize, gleeful at the meal found.  The young man and woman seemed to be content with one another, each smile evidence that their conversation flowed on two levels, the surface level innocent, but below it the hidden language of romance.

The lean and dark cherry complexioned female, in matching white tennis skirt and top, looked at her male paramour’s face without wavering, she was fully engrossed in their communication, some of it non-verbal.  Likewise, the young man’s attention was fully on the girl from down the block, he was relieved she had an interest in him.  Their discussion, though it may have been inane, was punctuated by gentle laughter.  A connection was occurring beneath the verbal, a connection that was in a realm within the heart, the medium that cannot be described by words or pierced by logic.

Her hand kept gently landing on his, or sometimes missed and rested on his knee.  It would linger for the perfect measure of time, long enough to not be construed as innocent, or accidental, and short enough to cause him to hope she would touch him again. 

‘Saturday’, as her parents named her, because her family moved into their first apartment on that day and conceived her on that same day of the week, was born on a Saturday, was the child of a newly married couple’s flirtations and desires.  And the same flirty gene that brought her parents together, and created her in the womb, had also carried over to her.  Though she had no reputation in the street, except for being a good (and sometimes suggestive) dancer at local events, Saturday’s innocent flirtatiousness was the object of many a young man’s attention.

But Shawn was no slouch.  A former high school gymnast, now in community college, he was in enviable physical condition.  He wanted to major in dance, but that would get him ridiculed or mistaken for gay.  His concern had good reason; the art form was dominated by pretty and soft-skinned young males practicing unmanly diets and alternate lifestyles.  Instead, he picked physiology, and minored in performance art.  Thus, not only was he physically irresistible, he had been coached in the gentle art of drama and how to use it to effect.  If the young man’s ripped body didn’t get the girl, his ability to manipulate moods would.  As much as Saturday was jealously hated by her peers, Shawn was equally envied by his.

At the same time, a few miles further up the street, a bus rumbled and jolted down Striver’s Row street, picking up and delivering the residents of the different neighborhoods.  Aboard it, the good people were subjected to the intimidations of the socially maladjusted deviants who went unchallenged in this city.  As men who were either outnumbered or outdated remained silent, a mob of hoodlums raucously dominated the atmosphere in the public transportation vehicle.  They cursed loudly, the most vulgar of language that even the most grizzled construction worker would not use in the open.

They pushed one another about, sometimes stumbling against riders who pretended not to be aware of the obvious, hopeful that ignoring the anarchy about them would either cause it to end or at least exclude themselves from being a target.  But the silence of the humble passengers only served to empower the group, the realization that fear, a devastating emotion, was present.

For a street thug, fear is the tool of choice, used to control potential targets, silence critics, frighten away scrutiny, and neutralize correction.  To achieve this level of intimidation, in a group they exhibit behavior to irritate and offend, just up to the edge of illegality.  Enough to annoy, not enough to draw police attention.  This would include demonstrations of volatility, to show that the group was prone to unpredictable violence.  In a society that had been trained to ‘not get involved’, ‘it’s not worth it’, and, ‘it’s not your job’, the mobs of troublemakers ran unchecked.

Unfortunately for the pacifists, the thugs interpreted their passivity as fear.  And in many cases, it is.  The antagonists grow bolder.  Boldness is necessary for what they do, the nerve to intimidate or threaten a stranger.  There is a risk that among a targeted group is someone miscalculated as weak and impotent, but surprisingly is not! 

But, if in a group, or alone but armed, the thug’s bravery will increase to frightening levels, and his (sometimes her) natural instinct is to use that demonic boldness to achieve intimidation, dominance, and reap either a material profit through a quick shakedown or establish and bolster a violent reputation with a beating, stabbing, or killing.

The ‘Boyd Avenue Gang’ had achieved that level of reputation and intimidation.

The fifteen or so on the bus were a mix of the newest and the least effective of the gang’s ranks, those whose criminal nature was not yet refined enough to acquire large sums of cash and vehicles to move themselves about, and future thugs who had not yet risen through the those ranks.

When the bus driver politely asked them to remain in their seats and keep the noise down, they told him to ‘shut the f**k up!  Drive this piece o’ shit bus before you have an accident!’.  When a middle-aged man pushed off one of the gang members that stumbled against him, he was beaten and thrown out the back door at the next stop.  A woman who objected was cursed and spat upon, and a young Heather, seated next to her, receded further into her despondency over the anarchy of her world.  The remaining passengers kept silent, the Boyd Avenue gang had made its point.

Four of them decided to get off the bus, the males, to go back and find the man they had beaten and thrown off, they realized they should have robbed him also.  The female Boyd Avenue gang members stayed on the bus, they were not into robbery, extortion was more their thing.  They were solid street dykes, they could, and at times would, reach the level of violence of their male counterparts, but there was no defying nature and DNA, and so they preferred more cerebral or underhanded methods of crime such as protection rackets, bootlegging, and shoplifting/resale campaigns.

JC WATTS STREET!  Somehow the frustrated bus driver was still making stop announcements, and one of the unpredictable dykes shouted, YO!  THIS IS US!  The group arose from their various positions scattered about the bus and stumbled out the front and back doors, leaving the driver and remaining passengers and Heather relieved.

They fell out the bus onto and around a bench and rain shelter that covered the bus stop.  One of the girls produced a bottle of booze while others lit cigarettes or other manner of illegal tobacco.  Their raucous behavior continued, laughing and cursing obnoxiously in the medium blue glow of a recently set sun

¥

Shawn whispered in Saturday’s ear, and she grinned.  The message was meaningless, it was just an excuse to lightly blow on her ear, on the tiny invisible hairs that enable a person to sense a breeze or the direction a sound comes from.  She grinned, not so much at the barely intelligible phrase he murmured, as at the sensation of his warm breath tickling her from her ear all the way to her toes.  It felt good. 

Saturday did what she had not planned, and snaked her arm under his, then back over, took his hand, and interlaced her fingers with his.  Shawn had not expected this, looked her in the eye.  They held the gaze because both knew that the simple movement, that small act, was as big a step as when Neil Armstrong stepped off the ladder onto the lunar surface.  In that moment, Shawn and Saturday were oblivious to all around them, they couldn’t hear the traffic, they didn’t notice anything around them.

And they didn’t notice the Boyd Avenue gang across the street.

Hey Love!  The young couple did not realize the shouts from the group across the street at the opposite bus stop were directed at them.  Or more precisely, Saturday.

HEY LOVE!  OVER HERE!  The cat call was led by a husky man in the standard uniform of the thug, sagging jeans embroidered with bizarre prints front and back, short jacket, also with undecipherable prints, and baseball cap casting a shadow on a semi-tattooed face.  The other almost dozen in the group were in variations of this unofficial uniform.

SWEETHEART!  WE TALKING TO YOU!  Shawn’s attention on Saturday broke, and he stared across the street.  Saturday followed his stare, and the cat calls grew:

HEY MA!  HEY MA!  COME OVER HERE WITH US!  WE KNOW HOW TO HAVE A GOOD TIME!  Another joined in: COME BE FRIENDS WITH US.  ‘LEZ’ BE FRIENDS!

Wordless, the couple just stared, the group was a bit rowdy, they seemed to be intoxicated.  Shawn tensed, he wasn’t looking for trouble, though none of them seemed to be physically imposing.  In fact, Shawn thought physically they looked a bit hippy down low and up top narrow in the shoulders. ‘Strange looking guys’ he thought to himself.  He couldn’t put his finger on it from the distance, some of them looked unusual, it didn’t make