Page 37 of Dirty Empire

She stands from the desk and strides out the door, slamming it harder than necessary.

I head up to my room, grabbed a bag, two handguns, and my cell phone. Time for heads to roll. I call my pilot, telling him to meet me at the terminal.

“We’re taking a trip to L.A.,” I declared.

This punk is going to get the message loud and clear.

My game face was on. I intended to serve final notice to this Brighton guy and send a message that I was not to be played with. On my way to L.A., I reached out to a couple of my “friends” to meet me at the GPS coordinates where Brighton was located. On the plane, Mike fills me in on the details. I’ve allowed him to take the lead on this and come up with a plan to scare the shit out of this guy. I’ve got too much on my mind right now to think clearly. As the plane touched down in L.A., I was met by a black SUV and four tall secret-service type men.

One of the men, wearing black gloves, extended his hand. “Sir. Let’s take care of this business.”

I reach into the inside pocket of my jacket and hand the man a wad of cash. “This should be more than enough.”

I could have sent these men to take care of the “issue” for me. But this was personal. I wanted Brighton to see my face and know without a doubt that Maverick Stapleton was not out of the business yet.

I hit the road along with the four men. The driver exited the private terminal heading north on the 405 freeway. After weaving through heavy traffic, he got off at Sepulveda Boulevard and snaked west into the warehouse district. The district is littered with warehouses on each side of every street. Most of the warehouses are vandalized with graffiti and look dilapidated on the outside.

Our tires squeal a little through an alleyway and then halt at warehouse “B” where Brighton is supposed to be. My new crew and I lock and load our weapons. Mike delivers information to me through an earpiece I’m wearing. Freddy has been able to hack into the surveillance equipment in the warehouse, so I have eyes and ears on Brighton and his associates.

“Okay, Mav, there looks to be six men with him. There are two AK-47’s, three 45-calibers, and two 9-MMS. They are at the South end of the building in an office. You’re going to come in through the north door. There is a keypad lock on the door. Press 2-7-7-5 to enter.”

I signaled to the men to move toward the door. Hands on their guns, they walked to the door. Freddy had disabled the outside cameras. I slipped on my black gloves and pressed the code to enter. Single file, my men entered like ninjas. They survey the outlay of the building. They listened to Mike’s instructions. The coast was clear. The inside of the building resembled an inventory warehouse. There were rows of shelving approximately eight-feet high stretching across the floor from north to south. They filtered out in a southward direction toward the offices as they reached the door. I gave the signal to halt. I peeked around the shelving. Men were in the office. I made the call for a bold move.

“Mike, we are straight up to the door. No circling around. I want this punk to know I’m not afraid of him or his small-time goons,” I grunted.

Giving the head nod to my men, I instructed them to put their weapons on their sides and out of sight. As they neared the door, one of Brighton’s men caught wind of us, drawing his gun.

“Boss, we’ve got company,” the man told Brighton. He matched my height and size. Unlike Miles, if it came down to hand to hand combat, Brighton might be a challenge. Brighton pivoted like lightning and stepped behind the table. He was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, obviously not expecting a fight today. The door to the office was cracked open, so I forced it open with the toe of my black boot. Brighton’s men pointed their barrels at my men and me.

“Who the fuck are you?” Brighton spat.

I stood in stark silence as my four men flanked me in pairs on either side.

“Maverick Stapleton. From my understanding, we have a disagreement?”

Brighton’s countenance changed. He’d never anticipated me finding him. He’d underestimated me.

“I’d suggest you tell your goons to put their weapons down before this gets ugly,” I say.

Brighton gestured to his team to put their weapons away. Mike had been instructed to hack into the warehouse’s intercom system. Upon my signal, I would let them know the building was infiltrated. Any sudden movements would cause an immediate open fire. I closed the gap between Brighton and me. My four men followed suit, pushing forward with me.

One of Brighton’s men made the grave mistake of stepping between Brighton and me.

“Stand down, bitch!” my guy sternly pronounced as he pistol-slapped the man down. The man stumbled back, blood dripping from his now cut lip.

I prompted Mike to speak. His voice boomed over the intercom. “This building is crawling with men. Tell your guys to exit through the back door immediately, or we will kill this bitch.”

The screens in the office came on, showing several men holding a woman with a bag over her head and guns pointed at her. Brighton recognized the person to be his little sister, his only living relative whom he’d raised since childhood. Little did he know I was bluffing. The woman was one of my team members dressed like her. A trick. Any other time I might feel bad, but he brought Hazel into this. If he was going to threaten my family, I don't have a problem threatening his. The monitor went off.

“It’s cool,” I say quietly. “You guys go. I got this.”

Brighton’s men looked to him for permission. When Brighton nodded, my men walked them out the back door.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Five gunshots rang out.

Brighton’s face was as red as a tomato. His hands balled into fists at his side. I walked further into the office and slid one finger across the dusty table.

“I lost millions because of your stupidity. The money that Miles brought to pay for the guns that was my fucking money,” he gritted out.

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