The Directive (Prologue)
Seattle, Washington, Current Time
Two oclock in the morning. Slots whirred and rang in The Golden Thumb Casino on Seattles Aurora Avenue. Sipping a double mocha skinny latte, and wearing jeans and a loose Polynesian shirt, Namuamua Philip Manu ambled his bulky six-foot-six frame, searching for his assignment.
Lights blinked a ragged rhythm across people clutching cards or handfuls of quarters. Their eyes grieved him—filled with money lust or maca—empty.
A red strobe flashed on a Caucasian man. Not his Sheriffs Department mission. The light stopped, pulsating against this mans curly, brown hair. Manu judged him to be in his late thirties. From ten feet away Manu saw his eyes. They belonged to the empty ones, the hardness at their core unmistakable. Under the lights glare, Manu wasnt able to detect their color, but he knew they were gray-green. He saw a mind picture of river rapids—a bridge—and a troubled man. Something wrenched in his chest. Was this the same person?
Vaka-bauta sega au! I dont believe it! Is he the reason I am here? No, Kalou-God. The last time he had some tenderness. Now, no chisel can crack his mind and heart. He is enmeshed in danger—terror. His afflictions are for you and your angels. The department sent me here for another man. This ones not for me anymore. I cant do it.
The din around the craps tables indicated hot activity. He stopped there. Sport-coated
paunchy men shouted at the dice. New, rich teckies, guys with stylish stubble and dark shadows
over their mouths, and their counter-part women with long, shiny hair and perfect make-up,
slid their chips to the line. They high-fived each other when their numbers came up or erupted with expletives when the dice turned up wrong.
White-haired women, weighed down by jewelry, waited their turns to throw. They shrieked with excitement when they won and had their own styles of swearing when the stick man raked away their retirement money.
Centered in the hubbub stood the man the Sheriffs Department assigned Manu to
watch—Albert “Trey” LeFavre the third. LeFavre sported a slick, dark ponytail. Armani shades
covered part of his knife-blade nose. He looked neither left nor right. His lower lip jutted in a pout like a wax molding.
A sapphire ring and a gold watch on LeFavres wrist flashed as he moved five-hundred-dollar chips from the stack in front of him to the pass line. The deferential treatment of the stick man and onlookers marked him as a regular. And he was winning.
With stiff, swollen fingers, one of the white-haired women threw the dice. Eleven
rolled. Without emotion LeFavre scooped in the spoils. A crowd gathered behind him.
The group jostled a waitress bringing a tray of drinks. A glass with ice and lime splashed LaFavres brown silk suit. He brushed at his sleeve, yanking off his sunglasses, his small eyes flinty-colored. “Bimbo, dont come near me again!”
“N … no, Trey … I mean Mr. LaFavre. Im sorry, Mr. LaFavre.” The waitress fled.
Manu used the commotion to press through the spectators, to stand at LaFavres left shoulder.
Brushing back his hair and shrugging his shoulders to resettle himself, LaFavre jerked his head, looking past Manu to focus on the blackjack table. The faintest hint of a smile creased his mouth. “Michael Gunns in town,” he muttered to a guy on his other side, LaFavres chief enforcer.
Manu followed his stare. So that was Michael Gunn. LaFavre knew him. Manus mind immediately spoke to his God. No. Kalou, I tried before. This time theres nothing I can do for him.
“Ill bet Michaels daddy and mommy dont know hes back home,” the enforcer said to LaFavre.
LaFavre kept his eyes on the dice. “By daddy you mean the famous Hawk? What that old man and his wife know isnt important.”
Jack Motley leaned down displaying a jagged scar running from under his ear to his chin. “Boss, want me to yank him?”
“Entertain yourself. Take a serious down payment on what he owes us.”
LaFavre focused back on the game, glancing up after a few minutes. Manu followed his
gaze, noticing Michael Gunns chip stack had grown. He knew the enforcer would empty Gunns pockets before hurting him. And Albert LaFavre the third, lieutenant of the local crime syndicate, would make sure his hireling didnt skim.
The enforcer grunted he was leaving. LaFavre opened a stick of Black Jack gum and
folded it in his mouth, flipping his hand toward him. “Whatever.”
Manu looked down, stirring his latte. Without seeing, he knew the psychopath quivered with the excitement of inflicting intense pain. He closed his eyes picturing what would happen to Michael. The small voice hed learned to trust more than any other, impressed in his mind. Michaels brave mother has long prayed for her boy. She trusts me. Namuamua, obey me in this assignment, and I will show you mother love.