Chapter 43 The Dreamers

Chapter 43

The court room was filled by 8AM. The media was treating this preliminary hearing like it was the trial of the century. That would be coming within a few months, what with possible continuances and all.

Down at the station all necessary arrangements were made with the prisoners about to be transported. The eight shooters were cuffed and escorted single file down to the end of the holding cell area. Two set of motorized bars had to be actuated to let them pass. A final manual set of swing-open bars were key locked with one final guard sitting at a desk just outside. A final locked, steel door went to the outside to the waiting prisoner carriages. Two rifle armed officers were positioned at the opening of the alley that led to the street.

The shooters were escorted, first into their waiting carriage. Motown was escorted out next to his private carriage. He was to be arraigned last and would be kept in a holding cell at the court house while the shooters went through their proceedings.

Little did anyone know trouble was brewing. The Brown Panthers, unrelated to the Black Panthers, had made a decision there was to be no trial. This was a vigilante type organization of black men who had grown tired of the violence in their community, mainly perpetrated by members of their own race. They felt it was time for them to take some action. They had decided to target Motown and his boys and make their first example out of them.

They had positioned two, large Ford Econoline vans just around the corner of the alley entrance. Each van carried ten commando attired men with automatic weapons. They all wore brown ski masks over their heads. Their plan was that no police officers were to be hurt.

Four of their men in normal looking trench coats walked up to the opening of the alley. The police officers were standing no more than five feet back from the sidewalk. Two of the trench coats quickly roll-blocked the guards, football style, while the other two subdued them as they hit the pavement. They were quickly brought under control and put into a large black Cadillac and whisked away. Two look-alike guards quickly assumed their positions.



The ten commandos quickly made their way to the side of the prisoner carriages. They quickly forced the guards to drop their weapons, pulling the drivers from the cockpit and putting their own men in place. They handcuffed the officers and placed duct tape over their mouths, sitting them up against the precinct brick wall. They got the keys to the back doors, climbed in with the prisoners and sped off. They made it look just like a standard prisoner transport, only they headed down to the docks to conclude their business.

It took them only fifteen minutes to arrive at the docks and pulled their carriages into an old, deserted building on the end. They piled out of the carriages pulling out THEIR prisoners, lining them up against on of the walls. They left Motown in his van.

Two black Lincolns pulled inside within minutes with four well dressed black men in expensive suits walked forward with their heals clicking against the cement flooring.

"You're all set," said one of the suits to one hooded man?

"Yes, Sir, we are," he replied.

The suited man moved in front of the eight shooters to address them. He stood and looked each one of them in the eye. They were growing very nervous. It was their turn to squirm. They didn't like it one bit.

"We've grown tired of you killing our neighborhoods," began the suit. "We would like to think the legal system could solve this problem and eliminate your kind, but reality is they are not prepared to do what is right. They aren't prepared to take an eye for an eye, like the Scripture says. Too many of our well meaning politicians think your kind is, somehow, worth saving. We, on the other hand, do not. We have grown so tired of you having no respect for your own race. You use up our children like pack mules. It is coming to an end. May God, somehow, if He sees fit, have mercy on your retched souls."

Eight hooded men with high powered hunting rifles took places in front of each of the shooters. They locked shells in each of their rifle's chambers, holding them firmly across their chest.

"Ready," shouted a voice off to the side.

"Aim," shouted the voice again.

"Fire," he said again.

Eight shots rang out hitting each of the shooters directly in the chest cavity, ripping through the heart of each victim. They all fell quickly to the pavement. One hooded man went over to each of the bodies, felt the each of the victim's neck to insure there was no pulse to be found. There was not.

They quickly placed each of the bodies into body bags and dumped them in the vans they brought and left just outside the door.

Motown was brought out of his carriage and lined up in the same manner.

"I am not even going to waste on once of breath on scum like you," he said angrily. "Move."

The eight hooded men all lined up again, Went through the same sequence. Eight bullets ripped through Motown. There was no doubt he was dead as a door nail.

His body was also bagged and dumped in the same van outside. The van sped away to a predetermined location. The police were given a call fifteen minutes later where the bodies were left.

There would be no trial. It was over.