Keet laughed to settle his point, but Jamison raised the gun to his forehead and so much anger, so much weight from those days kept his moistening finger on the trigger. And he was about to pull it.
“I told you, you had to expect this,” Emmit said. “That you had to be ready. You wanted to play, and here you are. This is what everything you wanted looks like from the inside. Ain’t pretty, is it?”
Jamison moved the barrel to Emmit’s forehead.
“I never wanted to play anything. Any games,” he said.
“Can’t have one without the other. What, you think those superheroes you read about in history books never got their hands dirty?”
“For money?” Jamison asked. “For kickbacks from a program you know isn’t going to help anyone get rich but the corporations on top who already have all of the money anyway?”
“I’m wiped out. Retirement money is gone. Clara and these medical bills. What was I supposed to do?”
“Do right. That’s what you were supposed to do,” Jamison said.
“How’s that working for you?”
“I’m not the one standing against the wall with a gun pointed at my head.”
“So, you think this is going to solve something? Stop something?” Emmit asked. “You think you’re the first super-nigga to try to stand up against the machine. Well, you ain’t the first and you ain’t the last. You kill us and we’re dead and you’re in jail and guess what, Cade’s just moving on to the next deal. That’s all.”
“But it doesn’t make any sense. All of this over a deal? Over WorkCorps? Ras had nothing to do with that. Why kill him? Over this?”
“More niggas, more money. How were those white boys going to get a bunch of niggas to sign up for WorkCorps if you two were giving out scholarships in the ’hood like reparations? Everyone goes to college, no one goes to work. One less nigga to scrub toilets.”
“No, no, man!” Tears Jamison hid behind his mission blurred his vision.
“He was cutting in on the profits. About to speak to the news about WorkCorps. Too much work was behind it. Couldn’t risk it,” Emmit said.
“How much?” Jamison asked. “How much were each of you going to get?”
“Five million each,” Emmit said. “Five million each and more on the other side.”
Keet and Scoot saw Jamison loosening his grip in his anguish. They silently organized a plan with side eyes based upon who was closest to the door.
“He didn’t have to die. He was just trying to do right,” Jamison cried, unknowingly lowering his gun.
Scoot took this as an opening and rushed to the door as Keet charged Jamison, but before Scoot could open the door, a boom came from the other side and the wood banged into his face before a line of men with guns drawn stormed the room with military precision shouting, “GBI! GBI!”
The four men in the room were quickly outnumbered, even Jamison, who was still holding his gun out in shock.
At the back of the line filing in was Leaf with a Georgia Bureau of Investigation badge on his shirt pocket, a gun held confidently in his hand. The other agents subdued Keet, Scoot, and Emmit, but Leaf stepped toward Jamison.
“Give me the gun,” Leaf said. “It’s fine. I know everything.”
“What? What are you doing here?” Jamison asked.
“I’m a state agent. Just give me the gun,” Leaf said, pointing at his badge.
“I was just trying to find out who killed my friend,” Jamison said.
“I know. Give me the gun, man. I can help you.”
And then, as Jamison slowly lowered his loaded firearm, his undercover assistant stepped in and removed the weapon.
The scene at the police station was like something out of a movie. Cade and all of his underlings tied to the WorkCorps plot handcuffed to chairs in different interrogation rooms. Big names. And small names.
All sat stunned when agents walked in with the chief of police in handcuffs.