Tarik Black did his best to look inauspicious as he loitered in the Staples center parking ramp after the game. He had already done all of his research and knew exactly where his victim had parked his car. Any time now, that same victim would exit the elevator and walk towards his vehicle, naive of what danger awaited him. Danger which involved a crowbar cleverly hidden under Tarik’s bulky overcoat.
While he waited, Tarik pondered on what had led to his unfortunate, yet necessary, plot. It was easy to blame the target himself, but much of the blame also lay with coach Byron Scott. And Byron would never leave himself so vulnerable as to be attacked in a dark parking structure with nobody around.
Tarik could hear footsteps now. He waited in the shadows by a concrete pillar, tightening his grip on his weapon. Then, there he was.
Robert Sacre.
With the silence and quickness of a cat, Tarik struck, aiming not for Robert’s head, but for his knees. As the first assault sent a screaming Robert falling to the floor, Tarik only redoubled his efforts to injure his fellow backup center.
“Who are you? Why are you doing this?” moaned Robert.
Tarik threw back his hood. The astonishment in Robert’s expression added a small amount of glee to Tarik’s rage. “Coach will never give me the minutes I deserve while you’re around,” he growled, words separated by deep breaths as pure adrenaline sped through his veins. “Neither can live while the other survives.”
Clutching at his ruined knees, Robert lay prone on the hard cement floor, rendered voiceless by the pain. Tarik lowered his face so that their noses were almost touching. “Oh, too bad. I guess little Bobby’s going to be out with a knee injury for a while!” he said, having adopted a high-pitched voice. “Who oh who will fill his important role in the lineup?”
As the last insult, Tarik spat directly in his teammate’s eye. “See you later,” he said mockingly, leaving the injured man to whatever fate awaited him.