Snatched…a new writing, unedited…incomplete…

Titus said nothing to Angela. He and Bronowski killed Bradley Freeman because Angela wanted someone to pay for the death of her daughter. It didn’t matter to Angela that Bradley Freeman hadn’t carried out the attack. He was the right color, and that’s all that mattered to her.

Her hatred consumed her, and she found two willing accomplices in Titus and Bronowski. Of the two, Bronowski tried to keep his composure and do things in a way that covered his rear. Titus didn’t care about anything. He knew Bradley Freeman was a cop, and he knew that Angela’s brother had connections in the Ku Klux Klan.

When Angela’s son sold drugs to Bradley Freeman, the trio killed Bradley Freeman. Now Bronowski sat in jail, and Titus and Angela were on the run. God only knew where her son had ended up.

“What do you think is gonna happen to your son?”

“Tate will take care of him until I can get back,” Angela said.

“Take care of how?”

Angela frowned and met Titus’s eyes. She shrugged her thin shoulders and looked back at the television.

“You know, he’ll feed him and give him a place to lie low. What do you think I meant?”

“Tate’s in the Klan, right?”

“He works for them,” Angela said, picking up the pipe. She fumbled around on the mattress, looking for a lighter.

“Yeah. Your brother kills those who cross Ricki. He kills people like your son.”

Angela lit the pipe and inhaled. Her eyes closed as the drugs eased the tension in her mind. She smiled.

“Tate won’t kill my son, Titus. He’s got a rule about doing family in.”

“So, Ricki will kill your son. Tate’s going to kill me. Where does that leave you?”

Angela shrugged and took another hit from the pipe. She didn’t know and didn’t care. Someone had payed for crossing her, and she couldn’t care less about what came next.

Tate sat in his car under the flickering motel sign and screwed a suppressor onto his sidearm. Derek Davis, an old high school friend of Tate’s, had put Jackson and Angela on the third floor. Then he called Tate to let him know where they were.

“Angela, you idiot. You always ran with the wrong crowd,” Tate thought as he stepped out of his car. Like a haunting ghost from some long forgotten battle, he slipped through the night and to the staircase that led to the third floor.

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