Free King's Justice: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 2 by Maurice Broaddus

Indianapolis, he hated that Colvin insisted on this route. It was as if Colvin dared the police, too. Carrying real weight, it was Broyn's ass on the hook for the years and was in no mood to taunt Five-O.
      "What if they take me off?" Broyn had asked Colvin before he took off.
      "They won't take you off. You travel under the protection of my name." Colvin had a dangerous sing-song to his voice.
      "Yeah, but what if…"
      Colvin's unwavering glare silenced him. All Broyn knew was that he was no Mulysa, Colvin's new right hand. No one even thought about fucking with Mulysa. Maybe that was Colvin's play: daring a motherfucker to mess with his shit. Broyn hated the idea of being the potential object lesson of some bold fool out to make a name for himself, but Colvin was not to be denied.
      Rain-slick and deserted, especially this time of night, the bleed of wet asphalt wound past an apartment complex and gave way to an industrial park Georgetown Road got past 71st Street. The arms of the railroad crossing lowered, with Broyn not wanting to gun the engine to beat the train for fear of drawing unwanted attention.
      Nervous enough already, his imagination called up images of bangers rolling up alongside him or car jackers creeping up on him. Checking his side mirrors with suspicious eyes for any lurching shadows, he adjusted his rearview mirror. The red lights blinked alternately, winking eyes taunting him. Bushes overgrew the view of the tracks. The rain fell at an intermittent spatter, not enough to justify turning the wipers on, but enough to obscure his windshield. Having to turn the wiper blades on then off only served to increase his anxiousness. The car idled with a mild thrum. He wished he had that internal steeliness Mulysa projected, much less Colvin. They never seemed to care, equally at ease watching television, being questioned by police, or staring down gun barrels.
      Broyn threw the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and kicked the taped-down bag of money from his first delivery under the seat. Certain he saw a movement, he squinted as he peeked through the rain-blurred windshield, then flipped the wipers on again. The warning bells of an approaching train clanged.
      The car roof buckled under the sudden weight of something landing on it. Broyn scrambled for the gun he kept in the glove compartment – stupid, he knew, but he hated to go completely unprotected with so much product and cash, and the idea of Colvin's name as a shield was cold comfort to him. Peering out each side window, nothing appeared, but he'd be damned before he got out and checked the car. First looking left and then right, Broyn double-checked to make sure no one approached. His right arm slung behind the passenger seat, gun in hand, he prepared to put the car in reverse and book the hell out. A tap came from his driver's side window.
      The length of a sawed-off shot gun greeted him.
      A nest of fine braids draped from the finely sculptured face of an ebony beauty with skin like heavily creamed coffee. Her almond eyes missed nothing; she stood unperturbed by the rain. Broyn knew many black women who'd have thrown hell-to-pay fits being caught in the rain after having their hair done. She had a model's bearing, the nose, the cheeks, like European royalty. Except for her pointed ears. A pair of handcuffs dangled from her belt loops. She toted the shotgun with the casual swing of a matching purse. Omarosa.
      "You know what I want." Her voice had a sexy, if terrifying, thunder to it. More so in her whisper. "Slowly. We all professionals here."
      Besides the exuberance in her eye, the thrill of the game or her part in it, something else swam in her eyes. Something dark. Something terrifying. Something monstrous which lurked beneath her beauty. A slack-jawed looseness to his face, he dropped his gun with a flourish to show her he was cooperating, his hands in plain sight. Leaning forward, he reached for the