Secrets of the Shield

By Al DeAngelo Cooper

An assassin roams free on American soil. Her signature: a rose in various forms left on the bodies of the victims. Throughout the city, a psychopathic serial rapist wreaks havoc with his wicked, twisted fantasies while the investigation of a drug lord becomes a deadly, complex puzzle with unforeseen accomplices. The solution, Leon King, the lead man of the National Crime Agency, an organization of corrupt agents with secret agendas. As King and his team blanket the city, he’s about to experience how deadly the Secrets of the Shield can be!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781640276550

Book preview

Acknowledgments

First and foremost, I thank God! Without him, this wouldn’t have been possible. To the entire staff at Page Publishing, despite my predicament, you guys still chose to work with me. I sport your imprint with pride. For me it’s a symbol of equality, something many people in my position is not given. Therefore, I’m grateful. Thanks! A special thanks goes to Earnest Mallety for helping lift this project off the ground. To my mother, Jeanette Cooper, words cannot express my gratitude. Through all my adversity, you’ve never faltered nor forsaken me. I’m forever indebted. Thanks for everything! Brian Chucc Cooper, my little brother, who gave me the game on writing. Thanks for turning me on, brother! A big, big thank-you goes to everyone who was involved in making this book a reality. I appreciate all the support, and the list would be very long if I tried to name everyone. I’d like to give a shout-out to the entire city of Minden and everyone who has read this book. Thanks!

PROLOGUE

The woman eased out of the bed and quickly dressed in all black from head to toe. She went through the house, collecting her belongings and wiping everything she’d touched over the last ten months.

Her lover was out cold and wouldn’t be waking up for a while. She’d spiked his whiskey with three hundred milligrams of amitriptyline. That was enough to subdue a four-hundred-pound bear.

Playing the role of a sweet fiancée had come to an end now that she had her mark’s location. Now, erasing her presence and tying up loose ends were her final tasks. The loose end in this case was the man she’d deceived for nearly a year.

All she had to do was enter the bedroom and put a bullet in his head while he slept. That was all she had to do. But a feeling she’d never felt before wouldn’t allow her to do it.

For many years she’d sent countless men to their deaths with her good looks and voluptuous body. Her Slavic features exuded her sex appeal, and when she wore specs, it only substantiated her intelligence.

A Russian-bred beauty, she spoke several languages fluently and could dominate the average man in hand-to-hand combat because she was well trained in mixed martial arts. Also, she was an expert bomb maker and a marksman.

The woman’s face was beautiful, with innately full lips. Her almond-shaped eyes were light brown and glazy, which many people mistook for as innocence, something she was far from. She was five-five with long, silky hair that stretched a little past her shoulders.

She was a trained assassin, and very few people knew her real name or what she actually looked like. Besides the fake driver’s licenses and passports, there wasn’t a picture of her in existence. She’d been careful through the years.

Although her identity remained a mystery, she was wanted in several countries and a dozen or so states around the world. The intelligence community had dubbed her as the Rose because that’s what she always left behind after every hit.

Sometimes she’d sketch a rose somewhere on her victim’s body or place a predrawn one on them from a Post-it pad. Then at other times, she’d actually leave behind a real rose, fresh or withered.

Now that every trace of her had been obliterated, she placed her two bags by the front door. It was time to get out of her feelings and complete her mission. But her emotions were running astray.

Not once had she ever developed feelings for someone associated with the job. He wasn’t the first guy she’d gotten engaged to under false pretenses and probably wouldn’t be the last.

So why couldn’t she execute him?

Like hell, I can’t!

Reaching in her purse, she came out with a Walther PPK .22 caliber attached with a silencer. It weighed only twenty ounces and didn’t possess any stopping power but was lethal when used for head shots.

Creeping back in the bedroom, she gently placed the barrel behind her lover’s right ear as he slept so peacefully. He was such a handsome man. One, maybe two pulls and it would be over with. She closed her eyes, resting her forefinger on the trigger.

Jorge and Maria Gomez had been in the witness protection program for a few years now. Their true identities were Carlito and Juanita Santos.

Carlito was once the executive accountant for the Juarez cartel. He laundered millions of drug money through real and phony companies then through banks to offshore accounts. When he was approached by the FBI with a ton of evidence against his schemes, he squealed like a pig. In exchange for immunity, Carlito cooperated with the government, dismantling the entire organization.

Marco, the head of the Juarez cartel, put a million-dollar hit out on Carlito and his family.

The Santoses had two sons but could only claim one, Carlito Jr., whose new name was now Jorge Jr. Their oldest son, Juan, was serving a thirty-year sentence in federal prison for his role in the cartel.

Juan could’ve gotten a downward departure from his father in assisting the government. But he made it clear in open court that he wanted no leniency. For his loyalty, Marco gave strict orders for no one to touch a hair on his head.

Thunder reverberated throughout the house as bolts of lightning lit up the heavens. A moment later, a nasty downpour came.

Juanita loved it when it rained, especially, when she and Carlito were alone, like now. Little Carlito was at a friend’s house. Something about the rain seemed to bring the freak out of Juanita. Not only did she want to do strange things, she became more aggressive too.

Carlito was already nude, lying on the bed. Juanita disrobed and stared at him with a devilish grin. He wondered what she had in store for him tonight. After twenty-something years of marriage, he still became aroused at the sight of her naked body.

Juanita crawled in to the bed, purring like a cat, kissing her husband’s inner thighs; he growled like a lion. As she was about to take him in her mouth, the doorbell sounded. Juanita cursed, wondering who the hell was out in this nasty storm at this hour. Slipping her robe back on, she sauntered to the front door.

Who is it? she asked.

May I use your phone? My car broke down and I have a baby with me!

Juanita peered through the peephole and saw a woman cradling an infant. She deactivated the alarm and disengaged the locks. When she opened the door, a pistol was aimed at her face.

Pew! Pew! Two .22 bullets entered Juanita’s head before she could blink her eyes.

Closing the door, stepping over the body, the woman dropped the doll on the floor and moved silently through the house, clearing each room. She knew that the couple had a little boy; he had to go as well. At this time of night, he should’ve been in bed, sleeping.

All but one room unsearched, she concluded that the boy was either gone or in the last room with his father.

In the last room, her primary target was stretched out on the bed, spread-eagled, butt naked with his eyes closed. But no little boy. She held back a giggle at the sight of his tiny member; it resembled a jumbo shrimp.

Aye, Carlito?

His eyes flew open in terror at the sound of his real name. He attempted to sit up, but the assassin squeezed the trigger twice, putting two rounds between his eyes. Pulling her Post-it pad from her pocket, she tore a sheet off and pressed it to Carlito’s mouth.

On her way out the house, she scooped up the doll and placed a Post-it sheet on Juanita’s mouth also. Each piece of paper had a beautiful sketch of a rose on them.

CHAPTER 1

The dark clouds that materialized in the sky gave credence to the meteorologist’s prediction of rain, which, for Leon King, only enhanced his reluctance of being pulled away from a well-planned evening. He arrived on the scene to a cluster of onlookers and what seemed like the entire Minden Police Department, or MPD.

MPD’s distinctive dress was black and yellow, giving them the appearance of a swarm of honeybees the way they buzzed around. A handful of deputies from the sheriff’s office were also in the midst. They were recognizable by their brown and tan uniforms. Their squad cars, coupled with MPDs, were at the bottom of Harris Street to prevent anyone from entering.

At the top of the hill where King approached, squad cars were strewn across the street into the yard of a vacant house and into the parking lot of Ewell Park’s recreation center. Admission from this point was almost impossible.

Harris Street was approximately a mile long and was well traveled. There were no side streets, only houses stacked close together along both sides of the street. Ewell Park was one street over and was a common dwelling for those who lived in the Sugarhill neighborhood.

In the summer, people from all over the city made a debut at the renowned park just to show off his or her ride. On Sundays, it looked like the parking lot of a luxury-European-car dealership, with the various BMWs, Audis, Mercedeses, and Range Rovers. One didn’t need glasses to see that most of the vehicles were owned by those successful in the drug trade.

For entertainment, baseball or softball was played on one of the two fields by mixed gender. Some teams contained young and old; there was no discriminating because it was all for fun. There was even a playground for small children. It was away from the fields so that the kids didn’t come in contact with a stray ball. The playground was furnished with swings, slides, and merry-go-rounds.

A concession stand was situated between the two baseball fields, selling everything from snow cones to nachos and a variety of other snacks associated with summer.

King pulled his vehicle on the premises of the recreation center, and all heads swiveled his way. His vehicle had that type of effect. It was a 1970 Pontiac GTO Resto-Mod.

He once had a magnificent collection of muscle cars for a number of years. With the ’70 GTO being one of his all-time favorites, he wanted to build a Resto-Mod version of the car that closely retained the external look of the classic Goat. After selling his entire collection, it took him two years to complete his project.

It was done to perfection in a lacquered-bowling-ball black with the door handles and trunk lock shaved. The external look continued with one off-chrome Tristo by Lexani eighteen- and twenty-inch wheels.

The engine was a killer, based on a Pontiac 400 block with Pontiac 5C heads, totally aftermarket innards, a ProCharger P 600B Supercharger with eleven pounds of boost and an MSD Crank Trigger.

The transmission was an upgraded Turbo 400 automatic with a B&M 2800 rpm stall converter. The rear end contained a Pontiac housing with Moser axles and Richmond 3.90 gears. Breaks were Baer units, with thirteen-and-a-half-inch body color units.

The interior had Dakota Digital Gauges, a completely clean custom dash, and hand-built console containing a serious control system. Flow Fit custom seats and custom fiberglass door panels were covered with vinyl. And naturally, there was a pounding stereo that featured components from Sony, Precision Power, and Boston Acoustics.

As they stared at his car, King took a moment to observe his surroundings.

Officers were ushering spectators inside the recreation center or to the other side of it. A lone state trooper sat parked in his cruiser near the doors of the center while two EMTs who’d abandoned their ambulance engaged the trooper in conversation. A black guy who must’ve thought he was Elvis Presley was arguing with two policemen about his right to observe the action.

He was quite a sight to see.

The wig on his head was just as large as the sunglasses on his face. His white skinny jeans were four inches above his ankles, as if he were expecting a flood. The penny loafers on his feet went out of style over three decades ago, but they had a glossy shine on them. His shirt was long sleeved—despite the weather—with a gigantic butterfly collar. It was half-buttoned, revealing tiny beads of chest hair that resembled overcooked taco meat.

When one of the officers threatened to arrest the wannabe Elvis, he became respectfully compliant.

Directly across the street, a large Winnebago had been brought from the NCA’s garage to serve as a communication and command center. It was situated in the yard of the vacant house. King noticed that it was barricaded with his guy’s vehicles, which were behind the police cars.

All of his field agents were issued black Dodge Challengers with blacked-out windows. They were Hemi-powered 6.1 liter v-8s, equipped with all the accessories of a typical squad car, plus more.

Harper Reed and Chace Ingram were the first two agents from the National Crime Agency to arrive on the scene. They immediately set the Winnebago up and assisted Minden’s finest in evacuating residents from their home on Harris Street.

Out of King’s six field agents, Harper Reed was the baby of the bunch. He was only thirty, six feet, with blue eyes and blond hair trimmed in a buzz, also fit, handsome, and very intelligent, with the potential to be a leader someday. He was once an US Air Marshal but wasn’t too keen on disclosing why he departed.

Chace, on the other hand, was a reputed brawler and was booted from ATF for insubordination and brutality, just to name a few. At six-two, he was lean with light-brown eyes and chestnut hair that was a bit long. He could best be described as rough and rugged; he favored well-worn jeans, boots, sleeveless shirts, and sometimes cowboy hats.

When Leon King emerged from his car, Captain Matt Ford of the Minden Police Department beckoned him from across the street.

It was after six, and King had been at home, preparing for his dinner date with Kat, his latest flame. They were on for seven at his crib, where he’d planned to cook and perhaps get lucky. And Lord knows he needed to get lucky.

Reaching the huddle, Leon King asked to be brought up to speed. No pleasantries, right to the point.

Captain Ford gave him the rundown as a light drizzle began to fall.

Two officers were in the area when a dispatcher radioed that a possible assault was in progress. The 911 caller, the Elvis impersonator, was outside when the officers arrived. He pointed them to a house where a female’s screams of mercy could be heard from the streets.

Knocking on the door, the cops identified themselves, and the screams instantly ceased. Assuming the woman was in imminent danger, the officers made a forced entry.

Bad idea.

A wild-eyed man was naked and covered in camo paint as he used a bloody-faced woman for a shield. With a large-caliber pistol, the man fired round after round, blasting the cops out of the same door they’d forced their way into.

Both officers suffered severe wounds; neither was wearing body armor.

Leon peered at the captain as if he was examining the man for bullet holes. Captain Ford was in his late fifties, with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. He stood a foot taller than King and projected an aura of valor and rectitude. He wasted no time in acknowledging that this was King’s show.

They had a fair interagency relationship, but the quickness in which the captain handed this to him set off alarms at first. But Leon quickly realized that the man was shifting the responsibility after having two officers shot on his watch.

What the jowly and out-of-shape captain didn’t know was, King had once been a hostage negotiator. Taking charge was like second nature to him.

Glancing around, Leon King saw that more and more cruisers were pulling up along with Channel 12 News. This was a situation that could get nasty and didn’t need to be broadcasted. He instructed Captain Ford to have his men set up a two-block perimeter, no one in or out. Above all, keep the media out.

Let’s get some body armor on, people! hollered Leon, mainly to MPD and the guys from the sheriff’s office because his crew was already suited. Grab some heavy firepower too. And smile for the cameras, and let’s not underestimate this guy!

Leon wasn’t taking any chances either way. People would be watching, ready to question whether the National Crime Agency was still worthy of taxpayer’s dollars. And the last underestimation, nearly three thousand people lost their lives.

That was when nineteen Al-Qaeda terrorists hijacked four US domestic flights, crashing two into the World Trade Center and one into the Pentagon. That tragic day became known as 9/11, the deadliest attack of terrorism committed on US soil.

The National Crime Agency, or NCA, was spawned specifically for the war on terrorism. Their existence came about at the end of 2013, shortly after the Boston Marathon bombing.

In the beginning they were just as clandestine as the CIA but more efficient. They were authorized to hunt terrorists down anywhere in the world. In some cases there were no arrests or trials, only results. The method of how Leon King and his team acquired these results became a major controversy.

Holly Turner, NCA’s director, pulled the reins and went completely dark on terrorism. Now they operated as typical federal agents tackling anything from human trafficking to dismantling organized crime.

Now they were viewed as just another alphabet agency siphoning hardworking Americans’ tax dollars, which was false slandering that could be accredited to the media—mainly Summer Wright, who tried crucifying them at every opportunity.

Summer Wright and Leon King were once an item when they both lived in Orlando, Florida. King was once a US marshal assigned to the witness protection program. One night a family in the program under his management was assassinated. Simultaneously, his fiancée mysteriously vanished without a trace. Overwhelmed by the tragic deaths and grief-stricken over his lover’s disappearance, Leon King threw in the towel and resigned.

Summer had been Channel 9’s anchorwoman at the time and had covered the story of the slain family. It wasn’t until months later that the heartbroken former marshal and the sexy news reporter met. With Leon King being vulnerable and yearning for affection, it didn’t take much for Ms. Wright to become Miss Right Now.

During the few weeks they dated, Leon noticed that Summer seemed to have multiple personalities. When he inquired about her sudden mood swings, she became offensive and increasingly belligerent. She was a screamer too and had a tendency to throw things.

King’s degree in psychology qualified him not only as a hostage negotiator but a behavior analyst as well. He personally diagnosed Summer Wright as manic-depressive, or bipolar, and broke it off with her.

Only after he got the goods though.

Truthfully, Summer was just too attractive for Leon to pass up. She was beautiful with a killer body and even had a tinge of notoriety due to her occupation. On the surface she was everything a man sought in a woman.

But Leon knew it was just a masquerade. So after jumping in the sack with Summer, he changed his number and never heard from her again.

A year later Leon King decided to resurrect his career in law enforcement. He accepted a lead agent position for the National Crime Agency in Minden, Louisiana.

By some twisted fate or just pure coincidence, Summer Wright just happened to be a Louisiana native. In fact, she was from the city of Minden and was already working at Channel 12 News. It wasn’t long before their paths crossed and they began fooling around.

Leon knew it wasn’t wise to sleep with Summer, but he did so anyway. He justified it by being new in town and reflecting on how awesome the sex had been. It was indeed still awesome, but the more they copulated, the more deranged Summer Wright became.

This time when he tried to break it off with her, they got into a physical struggle as she tried to stab him. King managed to disarm her without getting hurt and decided not to file any charges on her.

Summer made several attempts at reconciliation, but King rejected all her efforts, making it clear he didn’t want anything else to do with her. Brokenhearted and bent on revenge, she resorted to defamation.

Anything the NCA was involved in, Summer made sure they made headlines in a negative way. When she blatantly began twisting facts into lies, Leon reached out to the bigwigs at Channel 12, and consequently, her employment was terminated.

Unemployed, Summer Wright now stalked Leon King at unpredictable times.

Let’s establish some sort of communication with this guy! announced King. Who is he? Who’s the woman? Are there others in the house? I need answers, now! he barked, adjusting his vest.

Chace Ingram pulled a notepad from his pocket, flipped a page, and said, Name’s Allen Porch. The woman is his wife; her name is Mary. As far as we know according to some of the neighbors, they’re the only two that live there. No children!

Good! Thought King.

He’s an ex–Navy Seal too! stated Jose Gomez, handing King a picture of Allen Porch.

Probably has a sick arsenal, then, surmised Harper Reed.

Kevin Oliver nodded. Better believe it!

Aye, boss? said Nyrva Francois. We have the home number and the woman’s cell.

Got it from a neighbor who also said Porch is kind of on the cuckoo side! added Vickie Mendez.

They were all clustered behind the vehicle barricade when Allen Porch came out the house. Nyrva saw him first; all she could manage to say was Gun! as she raised her weapon.

Before she could level off, a hail of bullets turned the cruisers into swiss cheese. They either ducked or ran for cover as Allen Porch stood on the porch stark naked, waving an assault rifle from side to side. Then he retreated back into the house.

Hold your fire! shouted Leon King from the ground. This son of a bitch is a little more than cuckoo! Kevin? Jose? Post up!

Kevin Oliver leaped up and slung his .223 across the hood of the car, setting his sights on the front door. Jose Gomez did the same thing, except he was at the rear of the car with his weapon trained on one of the two windows on the side of the house.

CHAPTER 2

On the other side of the recreation center, Summer Wright held an umbrella over her head against the fleeing rain.