Rage & Revenge

By Dwayne Love

After a neighborhood girl gets drugged, kidnapped and violated she seeks revenge on all parties involved which makes the whole neighborhood dangerous. Thinking shes bitten off more than she can chew family rushes to aid and help make things right.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Mar 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781490781587

Dwayne Love

Dwayne Love was born in New Orleans, Louisiana. He was raised in Los Angeles, California, from age 4, joined US Army after graduating high school in 1990, and now lives in a suburb of Seattle, Washington.

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Copyright 2017 Dwayne.

Love. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4907-8157-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-8159-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-8158-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017904174

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Contents

Dwayne Love

Reicy Six Days Earlier

Terry

Reicy

Terry

Reicy

Terry Friday Morning

Tim

Reicy Yesterday

Terry Friday Afternoon

Reicy Last Night

Black Friday Morning

Reicy Earlier Friday Morning

Terry Saturday

Black

Terry

Reicy

Detective Sinclaire

Terry

Black

Reicy

Black

Terry

Black

Reicy

Black

Nadine

Black Sunday Morning

Reicy

Jimmy

Terry

Nadine Monday

Reicy

Marcus

Terry

Saturday

Two Weeks Later

Survival

Missed Opportunity

Nadine One Year Later

Reicy One Day Later

DWAYNE LOVE

I woke up from a dead sleep after hearing my alarm clock going off. It was 6:00 a.m., and if I had planned on being on the road by seven, I needed to get up and going. I looked over to see Nadine, my wife of twenty years, stir, but knowing it was Saturday morning, she settled down and fell right back to sleep. It had been a rough couple of days, and we both needed some much-needed rest. She’d gone back and forth to and from Las Vegas for the last couple of days. When she was off from the phone company, she worked for her brother and nephew sometimes, and the frequent traveling helped keep her mind busy.

I got out of our king-sized bed in the master bedroom, slid my feet into my house slippers while grabbing my eyeglasses off the nightstand next to the bed, and stood straight up, stretching. The TV was on, and we had it set to CNN World News. I guess we expected for the trouble where we lived in, Hawthorne, California, to make it on a world news broadcast, but we should have known better.

After grabbing a quick shower, a cup of coffee, and a Nature Valley honey granola bar, I headed out the back door of our modest three-bedroom, two-bath rambler home. It was kind of chilly out as the sun was just starting to peek over some of the apartment buildings east of my home on West 135th Street, just two houses away from the corner where Lemoli Avenue meets the street. As I was walking out, I could see the driveway, wet from the morning frost, and I noticed Marcus’s car wasn’t parked in front of the detached garage. Marcus was my twenty-one-year-old second cousin. He lived in the studio apartment that was connected to and behind the garage. It had been about three days since I’d seen his car, but with all the trouble that’s gone on in the last couple of days or so, maybe he was staying at a friend’s house.

Just before I hopped in my gold-colored 2005 Toyota Avalon, I heard and looked at our tall, slim, curly-haired neighborhood drug addict, Peedie, in the 7-Eleven parking lot, begging people for change as he did every morning. Peedie could have been a nice-looking man, especially with the nice thin, curly hair he had gotten from his black and Mexican mixed ethnicity. The 7-Eleven was at the corner diagonal from that near my house. We had a streetlight there for the busy traffic, but this day was kind of quiet because it was Saturday. I hopped into my Avalon, backed out of the driveway, turned left at the light, blew my horn at Peedie, and headed toward Rosecrans. I figured I would turn west on Rosecrans and hit the 405 north from there. I had a long drive ahead and hoped it wouldn’t take too long getting through security.

As the sun was starting to peek out and shine bright, the traffic on the 405 started crawling, so it felt like the usual weekday traffic. I then knew my journey north on the I-5 then the 99 would take a while. Two hours later, I exited the 99 at Highway 46 and headed west through the small town of Wasco and, ten minutes later, found myself turning left onto the road that led to the prison. This time I was dressed right. The last time they had told me I couldn’t wear blue jeans for the visit, but I could go to a small trailer that sat just south of the parking lot where they could provide me with a pair of used pants on loan to make the visit. I declined, hopped back into my car, and drove back to the Kmart in that small town of Wasco. That was where I picked up the same pair of tan Dockers I wore now.

An hour later, I returned to the prison, hopped out of my ride, and made my way inside with all the other visitors there, visiting friends and loved ones. This time I only brought my driver’s license. You get used to remembering the rules from previous visits. No cell phones or anything metallic on you, and your trip through security will be fairly quick. When I walked in, I did the normal dance of filling out the visitor log, sitting down, and waiting to be called by a guard sitting behind a counter so I could walk through a door left of him, where another guard waited while you went through the metal detector. From there was a short walk across a small courtyard to another building. I walked through that door and went to a small table where a cute dark-skinned sista with a body to die for, wearing, from what I could see, an olive green guard’s uniform sat, taking the names of the prisoners’ visitors. She would ask their names, grab her walkie-talkie, and give the name of the prisoner who had a visitor. From there, I waited until she said, The person coming to visit Troy Anderson can now go in.

I was directed to stand by a podium next to yet another guard. This guard was tall and slim with wavy blond hair all combed back. He stood there, chewing gum and looking over the whole open-bay lunchroom, which turned into a visitors’ lounge so loved ones could visit. Once one of the many tables opened up, the guard told me which table to sit at. They all had numbers taped to the middle, and everyone could see the number written on each table as he or she stood next to the podium. It was a full room as families came to visit, with more waiting in the other room to be called in. Everyone was all smiles until the visit was over, so they would spend as much time as possible. Some even took photos as the far corner was set up for pictures to be taken against a plain backdrop with a Polaroid camera for $10 each.

I walked over to table 7 and took a seat. It was next to one of the food and beverage vending machines lined up against the wall behind the tables. I sat there for about ten minutes before Troy came out the far door, looking for his visitor. It only took a minute before he saw me and walked to our table. We gave each other a brotherly hug before we sat. Troy was a slim, six-feet-two-inch man with dark chocolate skin, rocking a Caesar cut, which he had as far back as I can remember. He wore blue jeans and a shirt with DOC written on it in big yellow letters. When I