Face Off--The Baddest Chick 4

by Nisa Santiago

  Denise exhaled loudly. With one daughter in Miami, and in the hospital, and the next one acting like a savage, it was putting a grave strain on her. And Nina and her blackmail efforts were making her lose her hair. She had already lost weight from lack of sleep.

  As Denise gazed at her tired reflection in the bathroom mirror, her cell phone, which was lying on the sink, rang. She looked at the caller ID and noticed it was Raymond calling. It had been a week since she’d last heard from him, and two weeks since she gotten some dick. Seeing his name pop up made her think of pleasurable things again, like a good, stiff dick pushed inside of her.

  Denise answered his call. She tried to smile when she heard her young lover’s voice, but the stress was overwhelming her.

  “Hey, Raymond.”

  “Where you at right now?” Raymond asked urgently.

  “Home. I’m having my regular card game. You comin’ through to see me tonight, baby? I could definitely use some tonight.”

  “Get the fuck out ya place now!”

  Denise was confused. “What?”

  “I said, drop what the fuck you doin’ and leave, ’cause some niggas are on their way over there right now to kill you.”

  Denise was horrified and panic-stricken. The thought of being murdered in her own home made her knees shake and her legs wobble. All of a sudden she wanted to throw up.

  “What the fuck are you talkin’ about, Raymond?”

  “There’s a hit out on your head,” Raymond shouted. “And Chico has some heavy hitters comin’ ya way. Denise, just drop what the fuck ya doin’ and leave!”

  Denise knew Raymond was serious. “I’m leaving now.”

  She hung up and rushed out the bathroom. The living room was still crammed with her guests playing cards, smoking, and drinking. Denise was wide-eyed with panic. Are they at my apartment door already?

  The atmosphere in her home was still loud and jolly.

  “Denise, what’s wrong wit’ you, girl? You okay?” Damien asked, smiling and laughing.

  Denise ignored him. She rushed by everyone and made her exit out the apartment, hoping when she opened her door, her life wouldn’t be snatched away. As it turned out, the hallway was clear.

  “Denise, girl, where the hell you rushing off to?” Penny asked. “You okay?”

  Denise slammed the door as she left, not giving her guests any warning of the imminent danger approaching. She was in panic mode and too scared to think to utter anything to them. Her heart beat so hard it felt like it was about to tear from her chest.

  She rushed down the hallway and banged on Ms. Simpson’s door. “Ms. Simpson, it’s me, Denise. Open up, please,” she cried out. Her eyes darted up and down the hallway, especially focusing on the elevator, praying her killers didn’t step out.

  She continued to bang on Ms. Simpson’s door. Finally, Ms. Simpson swung her door open, and Denise rushed inside and collapsed.

  “My God! Denise, what is wrong?” Ms. Simpson asked. “You look like hell is chasing you.”

  Denise couldn’t say a word. She was in shock. When she tried to explain, her voice went mute. The guilt of leaving her friends inside the apartment started to trouble her, and she began to cry.

  Ms. Simpson walked over and began to console her. “Denise, what is wrong? Talk to me.”

  “I gotta warn them.”

  “Warn who?”

  ***

  Stone and Easton were two hardcore killers hired by Chico’s people. Stone stood six two, was very muscular, black like space, sported a bald head, and had cold, chilling eyes. Easton was six foot, slim, and pure evil. He styled his long dreads into a ponytail, had a thick goatee, and was deadly. They had been a tag team for years and had a resume for killing that stretched an arm’s length.

  The two killers casually strutted into the project lobby, which was clear of any residents. Both men wore dark shades, and they were dressed in jeans and jackets over T-shirts. Under their jackets they had concealed pistols. Stone had a .45, and Easton had a Glock 19.

  They moved coolly and in sync, like one unit. Easton pushed for their floor, as they stood erect and silent. The elevator came to a stop at the floor they pushed, the metal door slid open, and the men stepped out. The second they entered the hallway, they heard an apartment door slam shut. Easton and Stone stared in the direction of the door slamming but saw nothing. They craned their necks toward Denise’s apartment and made their way in that direction. The men heard loud music coming from the apartment. They knew there was a party or something going on, but that wasn’t going to deter them from their mission.

  When they got to the apartment door, both men screwed silencers onto the barrels of their pistols. Then they looked at each other and nodded. Easton raised his fist and knocked hard on the door.

  No response.

  Easton knocked again, louder this time, and a moment later, the door swung open. A man said, “Damn! Denise, you forgot your keys to your—”

  Before the man could finish his sentence, Easton forced his way inside, pushing the man off balance and shoving the gun in his face. Stone quickly followed him.

  The people in the apartment were suddenly plagued with fear. The card game, the laughter, and the good times came to an abrupt stop.

  A few ladies screamed, but Easton waved his gun at them and shouted, “Shut the fuck up!”

  Within the blink of an eye, the two men had the room under control. The music was still playing, but the joy in the room had been squelched. In total, six people were held hostage.

  “Where is she?” Stone asked.

  “Who?” a male replied.

  “Denise.”

  “She stepped out. I swear to you, we don’t know,” the male returned, his voice quivering with fear.

  Easton nodded toward Stone, and he disappeared down the hallway, checking each room methodically. He came back and shook his head.

  “Where is she?” Easton pushed the end of his pistol against the man’s temple.

  “I don’t know! I swear to you, I don’t know!” he cried out.

  “Someone in this room must know,” Easton replied.

  Easton and Stone eyed their hostages. They came to send a message to Apple. It was their instruction—Send a harsh statement to that bitch. Make it clear that Chico wasn’t fucking around any longer.

  “Fuck it!” Stone raised his pistol to the man’s head and fired.

  Poot!

  The body dropped to Stone’s feet. There was more screaming and panicking. The door was shut, and the killers had the only exit blocked.

  Easton followed suit, firing his pistol too.

  Poot! Poot! Poot!

  The bodies began to drop. The screaming was fading quickly, and the smell of death occupied the room.

  The remaining survivors tried to scramble for cover, but safety inside the small apartment was limited. They were too high up to jump from the window.

  A young lady in her late thirties was cowering behind a sofa, crying, shaking like a leaf. Easton walked toward her and raised his pistol to her forehead.

  She stared up at Easton with her tear-stained face and cried out, “Please, don’t do this! I don’t wanna die! I’ll suck your dick . . . right now.”

  Easton smirked and squeezed the trigger.

  Poot!

  The woman fell dead to his feet, blood pooling around her head.

  Stone killed a man running into the bathroom. He tried to lock the door behind him, but Stone kicked in the door violently and shot him multiple times, and blood splattered everywhere.

  The two killers left the apartment nonchalantly, like they’d just stopped by to see an old friend. No one was left alive.

  The war between Apple and Chico had reached a whole new level.

  Seventeen

  Chico heard the news about the carnage in Harlem. Six were dead. It was on every news channel, headline news for all the newspapers, and even caught national attention to some extent.

  He stood alone at Chelsea P
iers on the docks of the Hudson, waiting to meet with Ion. It was a beautiful day, with a vast blue sky and calm winds, and the pier was filled with people and activity. He glanced at the time. It was late in the evening. Ion had selected the meeting location. Chico didn’t understand why he wanted to meet in a public place. There were too many people, mostly white folks with their kids, enjoying the day, indulging in the fun-filled amenities the pier had to offer, as well as police and security. The atmosphere was making him somewhat nervous. He didn’t like people in his business, or being so close to police.

  Chico kept his cool and stood near the sports and entertainment complex that offered a variety of athletic activities like golfing, skating, batting cages, a gym, and a spa. He took a pull from his cigarette and kept his eyes open, moving gingerly, trying not to make himself look suspicious among the crowd.

  Chico noticed a yellow cab pulling up. It made its way toward the curb and stopped just short in front of him. The driver was paid, and a man got out. The man wore beige cargo shorts, a basketball jersey, and a white fitted. He had brown skin, cropped hair, and stood about five nine with an average build. And he wore black specs and carried a book bag.

  He stared at the stranger, watching carefully. Nah, this can’t be Ion, he thought. The man looked like a cross between Steve Urkel and a black Bill Gates.

  The man walked up to him, shook his hand like a gentleman, and quickly said, “Buy a ticket to the batting cage and meet me there.” Then he walked away, looking cool and harmless.

  Chico was taken aback, but he did as he was told. He bought a ticket to the batting cage and walked inside. The cages were made of a chain-link fence and were rectangular in shape, and there was a pitching machine at the opposite end of the cage. The interior floor of the batting cage was sloped. The place wasn’t crowded; only a handful of white boys occupied the place, practicing hard on their swings. You constantly heard the cracking noise of a bat as it connected with the baseball that was traveling at ninety miles per hour.

  Ion was positioned in one of the cages in a baseball hitter’s stance. He gripped the metal bat in his gloved hands and focused on the pitching machine. Chico took the cage next to Ion’s and emulated his position. Except for occasionally watching his younger brother’s games, he wasn’t a fan of baseball and had never played the sport.

  The ball flew out from the pitching machine, and Ion swung and connected with a powerful hit. Only the cages surrounding the area prevented the ball from soaring in the air. He repeated the feat again and again, making a direct hit with the ball every pitch and sending it flying.

  Chico tried but came up empty on a few tries with continuous strikes.

  During a break between pitches, Ion uttered, “I heard you need help.”

  “I do,” Chico said.

  “My services are expensive,” Ion said coolly. “I can tell you are already judging a man of my stature.”

  Chico was confused. “Judging?”

  Ion chuckled. “You thought I would look like a monster.”

  Ion swung and made the hit again, while Chico swung his umpteenth strike.

  “Fuck!”

  “Well, I am a monster,” Ion said. “I may not look like the one you pictured, but I am.”

  “A monster is what I’m payin’ for,” Chico replied.

  After a few more pitches, Chico started to get the hang of things, making a few consecutive hits of his own, but Ion was killing it. It seemed like he couldn’t miss.

  “My fee is sixty K.”

  “But—”

  “Do not say his name,” Ion interjected quickly. “No names.”

  Chico nodded. “You right.”

  “And it is only because of him, that I’m having this meeting with you,” Ion said. “But sixty K is my price. There’s no negotiation.”

  The hitting continued. The cracking of baseball bats echoed throughout the batting cage. The two had enough privacy to talk business, because no one gave the men a second look. It seemed like two people just shooting the breeze and chitchatting.

  “It’s thirty up front, and another thirty after the job is done.”

  Chico nodded.

  “And I do things my way.”

  “I just want the problem gone.”

  “And it will be gone.”

  “And how do you want payment?” Chico asked.

  “I’ll reach you later with the details, but for now, our meeting is done.”

  Chico nodded. He left the batting cage, leaving Ion swinging at baseballs, the cracking of his baseball bat ringing out repeatedly. He made his way toward the exit thinking about how eccentric his hit man was. He was impressed. And if Ion did the job he was being paid to do and killed Apple, then Chico was ready to triple his fee.

  Eighteen

  The black S-Class Benz with the Miami plates came to a stop in front of the Lincoln Projects late in the evening, and the streets were quiet for once. The fading sun was still burning down to some extent, and the humidity was still soaring high, making it sticky and uncomfortable. A few faces peered down at the S-Class Benz out of their apartment windows, trying to keep cool. Rap music played from another project window, and a mother yelled at her kids from a distance.

  Kola stepped out from the passenger seat of the Benz and looked around with a slight smile. It felt so good to be back home. It was a long trip on the I-95 highway, and she was somewhat exhausted. But touching down in the concrete jungle was bringing back old memories for her.

  She stood erect in her chic heels and gazed at everything. Home was so much different from Miami. The towering project buildings looked like giant cocoons in her eyes.

  She hadn’t told anyone she was coming back to Harlem. She wanted to keep a low profile for now. But she came with company—two shooters from Copper’s crew, Mondo and Sags. They had been tasked to protect her like she was the president of the United States.

  “So dis Harlem, huh?” Sags said, looking around from his seat in the car.

  Kola didn’t respond. She continued to take in everything. First, she had to find Denise, and hoped she was still living in the projects. Kola had been gone for months. But already, she saw that things weren’t the same. Her home didn’t look natural. She could smell the trouble around her. She could sense the tension. She had been hearing the news about Apple and her bandits tearing uptown apart.

  Sags and Mondo exited the Benz, standing out in Harlem like black people at a KKK rally. They had “dirty south” written all over them, with their box braids, the gold and diamond grills in their mouths, the strong Southern accents, and their style of dress.

  Kola was ready to make her play, take out the trash and start new. “I need to make a phone call,” she said.

  Mondo passed her his cell phone.

  “Not here,” she uttered. “My sister done pissed a lot of people off, and I look just like her. I’m not safe here.”

  Mondo nodded, and the trio got back into the Benz and drove away.

  ***

  Kola stepped out of the Benz and stared at Saint Raymond’s Cemetery for a moment. She felt hesitant in proceeding forward. She felt her heart drop into her stomach and her knees get weak. It was a heartrending moment for her, but she needed to be strong and walk in. It had been too long now.

  Sags and Mondo were about to exit the car and follow her into the cemetery.

  “Stay in the car,” she told them. “I’m gonna be okay.”

  “You sure? We were told to stay by your side, no matter what,” Sags said.

  “I’m fine. Just stay in the car. I need to do this alone.”

  Sags nodded.

  Kola let out a heavy sigh and walked forward. Every step closer to Nichols’ grave was a challenge for her. She didn’t do cemeteries. And she hadn’t been to the gravesite since they’d buried her little sister. It was just too painful to endure. Every time she thought back to the moment Nichols was murdered, she cringed. The unspeakable way her sister was raped and slaughtered fueled her hatred an
d angered her, and that feeling had made her a raging bitch. Many people had already paid for their sins against her family, but there was still a handful of guilty people out there who had to be dealt with.

  Kola strutted across the manicured grass. It was an awkward feeling, knowing the dead were underneath her feet, many probably burning in hell, and that she was responsible for sending a few of these people to their graves. She had a haunting thought about her final moment on this earth, whenever it came. But how will I die? Will it be quick? It was a scary and paralyzing thought, but she refused to dwell on it.

  She snapped out of the daze and continued walking in the cemetery, which seemed to stretch on endlessly with grave after grave, the Throgs Neck Bridge in the distance.

  Kola barely remembered where they’d buried Nichols, but it suddenly came to her as she continued walking. She started to remember where her sister’s plot was. It was near some thick shrubbery, shaded from the burning sun. A few tears began to trickle down her face.

  Kola heaved a hard sigh and peered down at Nichols’ grave. The pretty flowers that once covered her grave were dead and scattered, and the area around it was littered with debris. The granite headstone displayed Nichols’ name, along with her birth and death year, and engraved into it was “We love you, Nichols. You’ll be forever missed.”

  Kola stood near the plot for a moment, her fists clenched, and a deep scowl on her face. Her tears continued to fall. She missed Nichols so much. Nichols was the sweetheart and the smart one in the family. She knew Nichols was going to graduate from high school and go off to college. She was about to become a scholar; she had the brains for it. She was going to escape the ghetto and make something of her life.

  Nichols’ death left a void in Kola’s life. Her little sister was so young, so loving and caring. The monsters who took her life needed to burn in hell. Kola had vowed revenge for her sister’s death, and so far, she had executed it. But the one truly responsible for Nichols’ death, Apple, was a thorn in her side. Kola couldn’t forgive Apple for her stupidity.