Identical To No One

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

Nine.

Two at the gate.

Another two at the main entrance.

One by each of the three large trees and another two by the four-car garage.

Nine guards in total, all brandishing guns.

Their weapon of choice is an AR-15, classic but highly effective.

All unwanted guests who step foot on Benoit Estate don’t leave; at least not in the same condition they arrived.

The grandeur of the fifteen thousand square foot mansion nestled on two and a half acres is intimidating on its own but the armed guards make it menacing to most.

Most but not him.

For Akeem Lake, Benoit Estate is just a big ass house guarded by a few men with guns.

There isn’t much he fears and men with guns are definitely not on that list. Guns and shooting were a father and son activity when he was a kid.

The hobby grew into his career as a highly-skilled special forces sniper for the military, and now, he’s a gun for hire.

He has an extensive arsenal, which includes an impressive collection of semi-automatic rifles. Guns are his specialty and Akeem always has at least two on his person. For this particular first meet, he has his favorites—two custom-made 1911 TRP 9mms with an added Agency Optic Systems.

The red dot sights are for optics and intimidation tactics.

They are symbols and alerts to the victim that his hours on earth are winding down.

In no way are they needed for his aim. If Akeem has a target in sight, one bullet, one clean shot is all he requires.

His eye for distance is just as precise as a red dot glowing on a person’s chest or forehead.

The end results are the same—a job completed and another body dropped.

The sun has just set and the Florida sky fades to black quicker than the Texas sky he’s accustomed to.

Thankfully, high-tech security lights strategically placed across the massive property provide necessary light.

As with all meets and new business relationships, Akeem is overprepared and intentional.

He arrived an hour early to study his surroundings, take everything in, and make a final determination about this possible new business arrangement.

After scanning the property again, he pulls out his encrypted cell and calls his older brother and IT genius, Axton.

“Are you there?” Axton answers, although he already knows the answer.

Although different in many ways, the brothers are the same in more.

They are only seventeen months apart. Their closeness in age, similar work ethic, attention to detail, and intentionality in all things are why they work together so succinctly.

After fourteen jobs together over the last three years, Axton definitely knows his brother is parked outside of the estate in an inconspicuous vehicle scoping things out.

“Been here for twenty minutes,” Akeem admits. “And my gut feelings are the same. I’m not liking this.”

“It’s a meeting. That’s it. If you’re not feeling it, leave. You’re the one on the ground, and ultimately, it’s your job. You’ve always trusted your judgment. You can see what others can’t, especially me. My digital lens only takes you to the location. Everything else is all you.”

“Your digital lens takes me to the location. Provides all the details my eyes can’t see and ultimately provides the shit I need to successfully complete each assignment.

Don’t count what you do out. I just have a gut feeling about this shit, but I’m gonna go in to hear him out. I’ll call you as soon as I leave.”

Why would a damn Haitian gang leader need me to complete a kill?

Based on the number of armed guards protecting this estate, Marcelin has enough gun power.

So why the fuck does he need me?

This job is different from all of the others and that fact alone makes Akeem uneasy.

Besides his brother, the only thing Akeem relies on is his instincts.

They only steered him wrong once and that was because he erroneously chose to follow his heart and not his gut.

That was personal. This is business and he can’t ignore his instincts.

Something about this meeting just doesn’t feel right.

After ending the call, Akeem sighs heavily, shakes his thoughts off, then pulls up the info sheet his brother, the IT genius, had gathered and sent about their potential new client, the owner of Benoit Estate, Marcelin Benoit.

There isn’t anything or anyone Axton can’t locate and any system he can’t infiltrate.

Marcelin Benoit, known as Mercy, is the leader of the U.S.

-based Haitian gang federation, the Choublak gang.

The Choublak, named after the unofficial flower of the small island, combined three murderous gangs.

Under Marcelin’s leadership, they migrated to the United States in 2016 and are believed to be responsible for over two hundred massacres.

The source of Marcelin’s massive fortune is drugs and sex trafficking.

His reach extends from Florida to New York and even out west. He has killers under his fingertips.

“Again, why the fuck does he need me?” Akeem utters before placing his cell into his pocket.

After securing his guns in the small of his back and in his vertical shoulder-belly holster under his hoodie, he starts the engine to his cash rental and drives to the security gate. He gives his name to one of the guards and is waved in right as the large wrought iron gate opens inward.

Always keenly aware of his surroundings, he estimates the distance of the long driveway as he drives.

At least a mile and a half. Once he’s parked and out of his rental, he counts his steps as he approaches the large, double doors of the main entrance.

One hundred and eighty-nine. He also clocks the eyes of the armed guards trained on him. Five.

He presses the doorbell, the door opens slowly, and a tall, bulky man with midnight skin and blond locs to his knees stands on the other side.

“Hands up,” he demands but Akeem shakes his head.

“I’ll save you the energy, Big Man. I have one in my back and the other right here,” Akeem says, then pats his left side. “I don’t go anywhere without ’em. If your boss has a problem with that, I can bounce.”

After raising his right arm to his face and his finger against his left ear, the large man informs Marcelin that Akeem is armed in his native tongue. “Li gen de zam.”

“Pa gen pwoblem. Kite I antre,” flows into his ear and the man nods.

“You’re good. Follow me,” he says before moving his large body aside to allow Akeem in.

As soon as he’s inside, Akeem scans the entire lower level of the home.

He immediately spots the armed and ready shooter to his right and another at the top of the curved staircase.

On his face, Marcelin seems cautious, almost too cautious.

According to Axton’s fact sheet, only two people live in the home, Marcelin and his woman.

Big Man leads Akeem through the great room that opens to a chef’s kitchen, past elegant living and dining rooms into a striking bar and temperature-controlled wine cellar.

A shorter man, at least five inches below Akeem’s six-foot, three-inches frame, faces the bar holding a crystal glass half filled with fifteen-year-old Barbancourt rum.

As a show of dominance, Marcelin remains facing the bar, giving his back to Akeem as he enters.

“Have a seat,” Marcelin says in his thick accent, still facing the bar.

“I’m good standing,” Akeem asserts. He’s dealt with men like this, who are only as strong as the muscle they surround themselves with, and Marcelin will have the same courtesy Akeem extended to those same men—none at all.

“Pierre, stay,” Marcelin tells his security, showing his weak hand and Akeem smirks. “Would you like a drink?” Marcelin offers.

“No. I don’t drink when handling business,” Akeem says.

“Admirable. I think rum is needed for business,” Marcelin says, then sniffs loudly.

The remnants of his last hit of cocaine tickles his nose.

His eight-ball-a-day habit has practically doubled since he’d lost his most mishandled yet prized possession.

Although Marcelin pinches then wipes his nose before turning around, his habit is exposed when Akeem immediately notices traces of a white substance around Marcelin’s nostril.

“Allergies,” Marcelin offers before loudly sniffing again. “You sure you don’t want to sit?”

“Yeah. I’m just anxious to handle business,” Akeem reveals, feeling his annoyance rising. He’s already been in this house two minutes too muthafuckin’ long.

Unlike Akeem, Marcelin sits in one of three plush leather chairs in the middle of the room.

Their placement is odd in contrast to the rest of the room but only Akeem seems to notice.

For some unknown reason, it sticks out to him, but in reality, this whole thing sticks out.

And again, he has doubts about this job.

“Pierre, foto a,” Marcelin demands.

Without blinking, Pierre walks to the set of framed pictures staggered on the small mahogany table near the large window. He retrieves two and walks over to Marcelin. However, Marcelin waves him toward Akeem.

He hands Akeem the larger of the two photos first; it’s of a beauty.

A brown skinned woman with perfectly arched brows, lash extensions that look like they grew from her lids, and flawlessly applied makeup that only enhances her gorgeous face.

In the photo, she is standing in front of the very window in this room.

Not one hair is out of place. Her beauty is astounding but Akeem is drawn to her eyes, beautiful but vacant.

Those same eyes are in the second picture of her and Marcelin.

From the first contracted kill until the fourteenth, Akeem has strictly followed two rules: don’t ask why and never take contracts for women or children. He would not break a rule today, not even for a quarter million.