Cold Blue Read Free Page B

Double D Brothers.” At most, he’d conducted little more than a cursory pat-down of either man, certainly nothing to reap this harsh a retribution.
    “Why would those two assholes kill a cop’s family?” Thorpe demanded.
    “How da fuck I know?” Marcel replied, still able to muster up attitude. “Musta’ been stealin’ yo shit when it went bad.”
    Thorpe rose and walked away, his mind scrambling to catch up. What were the chances two North-side bangers would end up in Thorpe’s South Tulsa neighborhood, attempt to burglarize his home, shoot and kill his family, and be killed themselves a few hours later? Not very damn likely. If they were in fact the killers, then someone had sent them, and that same person or persons had bought their silence with a couple of bullets. Thorpe returned to Marcel, determined to get at the truth.
    “Who sent the Double D Brothers to kill my family?!” Thorpe demanded.
    “I don’t know what you fuckin’ talkin’ ‘bout. Just kill me already.”
    Thorpe knelt and peeled off Marcel’s hood. Then he pulled his own ski mask up over his headlamp so that it filtered minimal light. Eyes uncovered, Thorpe stared at his captive. “Marcel, you’re right. I am going to kill you. No matter what you say, or what you do, you are going to die tonight. I know you’re a solider, and I doubt you’re afraid of death. A part of me actually has respect for you because in your own fucked-up way, you have some honor about you. But you’re about to make the most important choice of your very short life.”
    Through the dim light, Marcel stared defiantly into Thorpe’s eyes . Good . He had the man’s full attention, and he needed it to drive home his next bluff. Death was nothing to Marcel; he’d accepted his ultimate fate years before. Most bangers have no regard for human life, sometimes not even their own. Marcel had no problem dying like a soldier. He would have the respect of his crew and enjoy a legacy—much like a radical Islamic dreams of dying a martyr. Thorpe had to convince Marcel he would strip that respect away…even in death.
    “Marcel, I’m about to ask you a series of questions. You can answer these honestly, or you can lie…it’s your choice. Either way, before I kill you I’ll give you a moment to make peace with God. If I think you’ve told me the truth—and I’m pretty good at sifting through bullshit, Marcel—you’ll die painlessly. But, and listen real carefully to this, I’m going to take a little insurance policy out on your ass.”
    Thorpe paused while continuing to stare into Marcel’s eyes; he needed to ensure he understood. “After you’re dead, your body leaves here with me. It may be in one piece, or it may be in several; that’s up to you. What happens to it afterward is also up to you. If I determine you’ve been truthful, your body will be found on a street somewhere. Your homies will assume you’ve been killed by rival gang members. They’ll come to your funeral and remember you as a soldier and pay you the respect you deserve. You still listening, Marcel?”
    His captive nodded his head as he stared back with unblinking eyes.
    “Good. Because if you lie to me, Marcel, they won’t ever find your body. Instead I’ll start writing search warrants on all your homies, and I’ll name you in those warrants as my snitch.”
    Marcel’s eyes widened and intensified with even more anger.
    “That’s right, Marcel. You will have disappeared and warrants will start popping up with your name written all over them. Everyone will think you’ve turned informant. You’ll be dead, but no one will come to your funeral to pay respect. The only reason they’d show up would be to piss on your grave. Now look in my eyes and ask yourself—will he really do this?”
    Thorpe really needed to sell this bluff to make sure he got truthful answers. In effect, he was forcing Marcel to be a snitch in order to avoid being labeled one. He was about to find out what