Murder For Sale

By Roger O. Williams

Troy is a twenty-five-year-old unemployed young man who lives with his sick grandmother in one of the most impoverished inner-city communities in Kingston, Jamaica. Troy secretly does vigilante killings in order to numb the pain of his traumatic past. When his grandmother becomes gravely ill and is in need of an expensive surgery to save her life, Troy is approached by an evil drug lord who is willing to pay for the surgery, but wants an enormous favor in return: Troy must kill the drug lord's number one enemy...a cop. Troy immediately declines the offer, but with time running out on his grandmother's life, and no other option, Troy is forced to make a decision that will change his life forever.

 

 

 

About the Author:

 

Roger O. Williams is a former stagehand, stage manager, and props master in the theatrical field. He is also a U.S. military veteran, actor, and animal rights activist. He is the author of Turn Back Blow, Love Will Survive, and Only Animals Allowed in Heaven. He was born and raised in Manchester, a rural part of Jamaica. He currently lives in the United States.

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roger O. Williams
• Release date: Dec 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736239575

Book preview

Chapter One

Somewhere in the city of Portscourt, St. Catherine, Jamaica.

A

blue-and-white police car with its headlights off came to a halt in a wet motel parking lot. The engine was quickly turned off. The front passenger door flew open, and a policeman jumped out of the seat with a Glock 19 pistol in his right hand. He was Sergeant David Myrie, a twenty-year veteran of the National Police Authority (NPA) on the island. Water splashed on his shiny black, government-issued boots as he closed the door and stepped away from the car. His black trousers—with a single orange stripe that ran vertically on each seam—almost blended in with the dark night. He had a brown complexion and was in his early forties.

He tightened his grip on the gun’s handle while scanning the area. A drop of rain fell on top of his black police cap, forcing him to look toward the black, starless September night sky. It had rained heavily earlier in the evening, and large pools of water had covered the badly maintained parking lot. He brushed off a night bug that had landed on top of three chevrons stitched to the right sleeve of his white-and-green-striped short-sleeved shirt.

The left rear passenger door opened. Myrie watched as Corporal Jacobs—a tall two-hundred-pounder—got out and closed the door. Jacobs was dressed in the same uniform as Myrie, minus one chevron on his right shoulder. Jacobs also had a Glock. He held the gun as if he were ready to shoot anything that moved. He skipped a shallow pothole of water as he walked toward Myrie.

Water all over the place, to rahtid, he said.

Myrie pointed to another water-filled pothole in front of the car. Watch that puddle, and keep it down.

Myrie had feared that both the noise of rainwater beneath the car’s tires and the car’s flashing lights would alert their target in Room 22, so he had decided that they would enter the motel compound with caution. The target’s mugshot had been taped to the police station’s bulletin board for over a month. The target was wanted in connection with several burglaries in Kingston. While they were doing a random stop and search in the area, a crackhead—who had a crack pipe in his possession—had quickly told them that he saw the wanted man entering the motel room earlier in the day. The drug addict was happy to feed the policemen the information in exchange for their letting him go. Myrie had taken the crack pipe away and warned the man to stay away from drugs.

Myrie had decided that it was a good idea not to notify their boss at the police station that they were assigned to, since there was a good chance the target could disappear at any given moment. Jacobs agreed and suggested they should not inform the motel’s office either, for fear that the person who was working would panic and trigger an alarm. The Back Door Motel was infamous for attracting prostitutes and one-night-stand guests. The motel was located on a lonely road in the small city. Room 22 was on the second floor of a run-down building a few yards in front of them. A large outside bulb glowed dimly on the side of the building. A few moths danced aimlessly around the bulb. Strips of paint hung loosely from the walls.

Sergeant Myrie gripped the handle of his Glock as he studied the front door and windows of Room 22. A loud cough sounded from behind the steering wheel of the police car. Myrie turned toward the sound and watched as Constable Sharpter got out of the driver’s seat and closed the door. Standing about five feet five inches, he was the shortest of the three and the lowest rank of them all. He had no chevron on his shirt sleeve. The short policeman was also in his early forties. He coughed again and spat a clump of phlegm on the ground, then wiped his mouth with a red handkerchief that he had in one of his hands.

Myrie wrinkled his nose in disgust at Sharpter. He beckoned to them with a hand and ran stealthily toward a shabby-looking flight of board stairs that led to the second floor. His two colleagues followed him.

***

Inside Room 22.

A brown-colored curtain in the room was drawn over a large glass window. Light spilled through a half-closed bathroom door into the room. The blades of an old, battered electric fan spun lazily in one corner of the room. A large, old-fashioned TV with a dusty, blank screen sat on a metal TV mount on one of the walls in the room. A 9 mm pistol sat on top of a bedside table along with a pack of condoms and a half-smoked marijuana joint.

A man and a woman lay in a single bed, kissing. The hot air from the fan blew over their entwined bodies. The woman, who looked like she was in her late forties, had a brand-new Brazilian-body-wave hair weave on her head. Her well-painted fingernails stroked the man’s nipples while she used the tip of her tongue to trace from the center of the man’s chest to his navel. The man had on a large gold necklace—with links about an inch wide—around his neck. He moaned, and the woman looked up at him.

You liked that? she asked.

Oh yes, baby—don’t stop.

The woman moved down to the man’s groin area as he clasped his hands behind his head and relaxed.

***

The three policemen positioned themselves outside the door of Room 22. Myrie stood to the left. Small beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead. He looked at Jacobs. The tall, heavy policeman had taken his position a few feet in front of the door. Sharpter covered them from behind. The short policeman put his handkerchief over his mouth as he tried to stifle a cough. A woman moaned in ecstasy in an adjacent room.

Myrie turned to Jacobs and whispered, You ready?

Long time, Jacobs answered.

Okay, said Myrie, after three. One, two, three.

Like a human battering ram, Jacobs stepped back and ran toward the door. He used his right shoulder and rammed into the thin wooden door. The door flew open with a loud crash! Jacobs’s body slammed into the wall along with the door. He looked as if the wind had been knocked out of him. Myrie rushed in with his finger on the trigger of his gun. Sharpter went in after them.

***

Inside the room, the man on the bed immediately caught Myrie’s attention. Police—don’t move! he shouted.

The man reached for the 9 mm pistol on the bedside table, but Myrie shot him in the head before he could grab the gun. The man’s head exploded like a watermelon. The upper half of his body slumped over the side of the bed while his feet twitched.

The woman raised her head from beneath the bedsheet, and Myrie reflexively fired a shot toward the sudden movement. The bullet caught the woman in the neck, and the force of the bullet knocked her on her left side. She grabbed her neck as blood gushed between her fingers.

Myrie rushed over to the woman and looked at her. His mouth opened wide, and a horrified look appeared on his face. Holy shit. Is what you doing here? he said to the woman.

The woman tried to say something to him, but only gurgles of blood escaped from her mouth. She took one last breath as her hands relaxed from around her neck. Her dead eyes fixed on Myrie.

Sharpter walked to the dead woman and looked at her. Blood seed! he said. His heart began to pound in his chest. He could not believe what had just taken place in the room. He felt like he wanted to run out of the room and disappear forever. He turned to Myrie. You never see her, man?

Obviously, a never see her. Sometimes you ask some stupid question, said Myrie. He put his hand on his head and paced the room. Shit. What wi going to do?

We? asked Sharpter.

"Yes, we, said Myrie. Probably if you was moving like you have life, you would notice her—"

A have the damn flu. What you want mi to—

All right, done now! said Jacobs. The arguing won’t help. A know what wi have to do.

What? asked Myrie.

Jacobs pointed outside. A have a Just-In-Case in the car. A never go on a mission without one—

Myrie held up both hands. No, Jacobs. No, wi can’t do that.

Wi have no other choice, said the tall policeman. Give mi a minute. He ran out of the motel room in a hurry.

Myrie could not believe what was about to happen. He knew Jacobs was up to something when the man had asked for a quick stop at his house before they went to the motel. He had never used a Just-In-Case on a mission before, but he was not surprised Jacobs had one. He knew Jacobs liked to do things the unorthodox way, and he did not want to do what the man had suggested. His ambition was to make it to the rank of superintendent in the NPA, and he knew the only way to achieve that goal was to do things by the book. He used a fist and pounded the wall with it while he cursed. Shit. Mills going be pissed!

Sharpter took a step to Myrie. You think is Mills you need to worry about?

Myrie turned to him. What you mean?

Sharpter stared at the brown-skinned sergeant. He wanted to tell Myrie how much he despised him. He felt Myrie was too cocky and boastful. He also did not like how their boss put his trust in Myrie more than him and the other policemen back at the station. He was rejoicing inside that Myrie had messed up that night. If he had won a trip to heaven, he would not have felt so good. Good for the brown police bwoy, he thought.

A asked a question, said Myrie. What you mean Mills is not the one a supposed to worry abou—

At the same time, Jacobs ran back into the room with a small bundle wrapped in an old newspaper in one of his hands. Here wi go, he said as he unwrapped the bundle, revealing an old snub-nosed .38 revolver. The good ole Just-In-Case. Never know when you going need one. Put it on the woman. He held out the newspaper to Myrie while he avoided touching the .38.

Myrie looked like he was close to tears. He looked at the gun and turned away. He had heard about policemen in the police authority who carried around an unregistered gun just in case they came across an unarmed wanted man. His conscience could not allow him to do what his fellow cop was telling him to do.

Jacobs turned to the short policeman. Shorty, do it for him. Just plant the gun on the woman.

Why you don’t rass do it, boss man . . .? Why you want mi to do it? asked Sharpter.

Jacobs shook his head and turned back to Myrie. Just do it and get it over with.

No, Jacobs, a can’t, said Myrie. A can’t plant a gun on the lady. The man gun is enough.

Jacobs stepped closer to his distraught fellow cop. Myrie, wi have to cover all angles. Wi all know the dead bwoy already have a gun, but if the woman have one too, it will make them look like a boyfriend and girlfriend team—two thieves in love . . . Case closed.

Myrie looked at Sharpter, but the short policeman looked away. Myrie reluctantly took the newspaper from Jacobs. He walked to the bed and threw the gun beside the dead woman. He used the newspaper to hold the mouth of the gun and picked it up. He took a deep breath and placed the gun in the dead woman’s right hand. Then he held his head to the floor and sobbed softly.

Chapter Two

Four hours later. Somewhere in Portscourt, Jamaica.

A

green-colored car was parked on the side of a main road in front of a white concrete building. A sign on the building—written in gold letters—glowed faintly in the dark. The sign read: "Jefferson’s Funeral Home." A dark blue pickup truck with heavily tinted windows pulled up and parked in front of the car. The driver’s door opened, and Rascal—a twenty-six-year-old thug with an unkempt head of hair that made him look like a young Rastafarian—stepped out onto the sidewalk. He had a single loose cigarette behind his right ear. He wore a blue T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans cut off at both ankles. He flexed both arms as he scanned the area.

A second thug emerged from the back of the truck. His nickname was Gun Puppy. He sported a student’s khaki shirt and pants along with a pair of black shoes. He carried a black school backpack on his back. Even though he was twenty-four years old, he had a baby face that could make him pass for a fourteen-year-old boy. He also spoke with a stutter.

Rascal walked to the front passenger window and knocked on it. The door opened, and Jungle, a fifty-five-year-old man with very dark skin, got out. Jungle was a local marijuana distributor who operated a recording studio at his house. He produced reggae-dancehall music as a sham so that he could be seen as a legitimate businessman. His hair was corn-rowed neatly from the front of his forehead to the back. His clean-shaven face made him look like he was in his early forties. He was dressed in a pair of black jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black leather jacket. His six-foot body looked as if he worked out at the gym regularly.

He used his teeth to open a dark bottle of stout that he had in his right hand. He spat the metal cap on the ground and put the beverage to his lips. He drained the entire bottle in one drink. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and walked behind the green car. He used the empty stout bottle and smashed it into the car’s left taillight, splintering both the bottle and the taillight. The man brushed off his hands, dipped into his back pocket, and removed a wallet. He took out a white business card from the wallet. The card had a gold-and-black logo of a vinyl record, with a microphone resting on top of it. The card had words written in black letters. It read: "Jungle Justice Recording, where music is the business." Jungle put the card into the broken taillight faceup and walked toward a glass door that led to the inside of the funeral home. The baby-faced thug ran to the door and opened it for him. The three men went inside as the glass door closed silently behind them.

***

Jungle and his two thugs entered a marble-tiled lobby. A security guard behind a desk looked up from a sex magazine he was reading. He quickly put the magazine away and jumped to his feet.

Greetings, Sir Jungle. Right around that corner, boss, he said, pointing to a hallway.

Jungle walked past the desk without even glancing at the security guard.

***

The three men approached a large iron door at the end of the hallway. Jungle pushed the door open with such force that the inside doorknob broke off as the door banged against a wall. He and his two disciples stepped into a room