Bloody Betrayal

by J-Blunt

  A Gangsta’s Code 3

  Lock Down Publications and

  Ca$h Presents

  A Gangster’s Code 3

  A Novel by J-Blunt

  Lock Down Publications

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  Copyright 2019 by A Gangster’s Code 3

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in review.

  First Edition April 2019

  Printed in the United States of America

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Prologue

  In Starlight there was no such thing as turning down. Only up. And when it came to turning up, nobody did it like Super Trap. His cornrows hung just past his undefined shoulders; a diamond-studded money sign draped down to his stomach. His face was clean-shaven of any hair except a prepubescent mustache, and his eyes always shined bright. The hero’s moniker always made people who had never met Trap do a double take. A shade under five-eight and lightly built, the caramel-skinned twenty-five-year-old looked harmless. His lifestyle was flashy. Jewelry. Expensive clothes. Exotic cars. Fast women. People flocked to Trap because he was young, black, and successful. And they knew any time Super Trap stepped onto a scene, there was no turning down. Only up.

  “You think Dream goin’?”

  D-Star looked at Super Trap, the scowl on his pockmarked face saying more than words. “Stop playin’. You know Semi baby momma off limits. That nigga crazy, and that bitch ain’t stupid enough to fuck you and risk Semi findin’ out.”

  Trap took a slow drink from the bottle of Aces, his eyes resting on the woman across the VIP section. Skin red as the setting sun and eyes that gleamed like stars in the night, Dream was every man’s fantasy. She had long, curly black hair that had never been touched by a weave or extensions, seductive almond-shaped brown eyes, high cheekbones with a dimple on the right side, and lips that promised pleasure if a nigga ever got the chance. From the neck down she was an artist’s perfect drawing. The way her G-cups spilled from the top of her dress made all her dresses look low-cut. Waist slim, hips wide, and an ass that would make a preacher sin, Dream was the embodiment of the word lust.

  “You ever wonder what she was doin’ to that nigga wit’ her tongue?” Super Trap asked. “Semi do the most out here, but kept this nigga in line like he was her pit bull.”

  “Yeah, nigga. Key word is pit bull. Why you wanna know how she tamed a nigga who certified? If a bitch can do that to him, imagine what she’da do to you.”

  “You think he gon’ beat that case?”

  “It don’t matter, nigga. What matter is Semi crazier than Beanie Segal in that movie Paper Soldiers. And his niggas ain’t got no problems turnin’ hoods into ghost towns.”

  “You act like I don’t got shooters,” Trap smirked, looking toward Opt, his day-one nigga and number one shooter.

  “You would turn the city out over some pussy?” D-Star asked.

  Super Trap laughed. “All I wanna know is how long her tongue is. Bitch look like a snake when she lick her lips. But I wouldn’t cross that bridge in real life. Too much drama on the other side. But it ain’t nothin’ wrong wit’ lookin’. That bitch bad!”

  “Now you thinkin’ like the nigga that turned a four and a split into a mansion,” D-Star grinned. “And while you was wastin’ yo’ time starin’ at M’dusa, I seen a flock of birds over there that ain’t neva been in a Phantom or felt ostrich seats.”

  Super Trap and his squad partied and popped bottles into the wee hours of the morning. During the bash, Trap gave into his lower self and crossed Dream’s bridge. A few smiles and bottles later, they exchanged numbers.

  When the club closed, secret text messages brought their cars to the parking lot of a soul food restaurant. Dream leaned against her pink Challenger, the curves inside her Louis Vuitton dress giving the sports car a run for its money.

  Trap swagged close, a smile on his lips and lust in his eyes. “They say lightnin’ don’t strike the same place twice.”

  She gave his words some thought. “I don’t get it.”

  “A boss nigga and a boss bitch meeting is rare like lightning striking the same place twice.”

  Dream smiled at the clever remark. “That was good. Now I see what they be talkin’ ‘bout.”

  “Who is ‘they’, and what they say?”

  “You know. People talk.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear. Most that shit be lies. Matter fact, don’t believe er’thang you see, ‘cause yo’ eyes can lie to you, too.”

  She laughed. “You just full of line, huh?”

  “Them ain’t lines, sweetheart. Them mottos. I live by this shit. This how I stay up top. But enough ‘bout me. Tell me ‘bout you. Tell me what you like so I can make it happen for you.”

  “You movin’ kinda fast, ain’t you? You know who my nigga is. You bold.”

  “See it, want it, buy it, own it. Semi can’t do nothin’ for you. I heard he ain’t got no bail. That nigga got his own issues. And since you met up wit’ me, you realize you got needs. Let me take care of those.”

  Dream closed the distance between them, pressing her voluptuous body against his. Her tongue slipped between her lips, defying biology as it touched the tip of her nose and then down to her chin. “You know I’m a fire, nigga. Ain’t you scared to get burned?”

  Trap’s hands found the soft flesh of her ass and squeezed. “I’m fireproof, shawty. Burn me up!”

  The Hilton Hotel was ten minutes from the restaurant. During the drive, Trap’s mind was so wrapped up in thoughts of Dream’s tongue, titties, and ass that he didn’t notice the black van following his Benz. When he got out of the car, tires screeched as the Dodge Caravan pulled to a stop in front of him. When the sliding door opened, an AR-15 stopped Trap from reaching for the pistol on his waist.

  “Getcho bitch-ass in, fuck-nigga!” the man with the rifle growled.

  Trap didn’t move’ fast enough, so the rough hands of anothe
r man snatched him into the van and took his pistol. When the passenger door opened, Dream climbed into the passenger seat.

  “What this shit about?” Trap panicked.

  “It’s about you, Super Trap. It’s always been about you. Semi bail is $200,000. We need that. We already got niggas at yo’ house. They got yo’ girl and yo’ son.”

  Trap closed his eyes as the enormity of the situation dawned on him. He fell for the pussy trap and had no choice but to give up the money. “Okay. I’ma give y’all that shit. Just let my family go. I’ma make sure they don’t call the police.”

  Dream smiled, happy with his cooperation. “Just give us what we came for and we gone.”

  ***

  Super Trap walked into his house and seen his girl sitting on the couch, their son wrapped in her arms. Across from them sat three goons holding automatic weapons. The sight pissed Trap off, and he spun to face Dream. Before he could get the words out, his eyes landed on a body on the floor near the hallway. It was Opt, his number-one shooter. Sadness swept through Trap at the death of his day-one.

  “I told y’all I was gon’ give up the money. Y’all didn’t have to kill my nigga.”

  “You should be thankin’ my niggas for that,” Dream smirked. “They followed him here. Ask wifey ‘bout that.”

  Even though the threat of death was all around, Trap felt the sting of jealously and betrayal as he looked toward his girl. “You was fuckin’ my nigga?”

  She looked away, unable to meet his eyes.

  “Y’all can talk about that later,” Dream interrupted. “Where that money?”

  After giving his girl one more angry stare, Trap led Dream and two jack boys to the game room. Behind the wet bar was a secret compartment that hid a safe. Inside was more than enough to get Semi out of jail.

  Dream spun to Trap. “This ain’t personal, baby. But I gotta bring my nigga home.”

  Pow. Pow. Trap flinched as two gunshots echoed through the house. When he realized they came from the living room, his heart sank. Before he could fully wrap his mind around the loss of his family, Dream lifted a 9mm to his face and squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter 1

  The revving engine echoed through the night as Queenie kept most of her focus on the road while glancing at Born Ready out of the corner of her eye. Ha held the pistol 1oose in his grip, the bag of money at his feet.

  “You know Pop not finna stop chasin’ us. Y’all gon’ have to settle this.”

  “What you think we finna do? Keep goin’ where I tell you. Speed up and shut up.”

  Queenie followed his directions, checking the rear-view mirror to make sure Pop was still following in the Maserati. Instead of heading away from high traffic areas, Born Ready directed her to the more populated areas. Queenie decided to use it to her advantage. After turning onto a busy street, she watched Born Ready to see if he would check the back window to make sure Pop was still following. When he did, Queenie went for the pistol, grabbing it by the barrel, trying to snatch it from him.

  Born Ready’s hand tightened on the butt of the gun like he anticipated the move. And for her lame attempt to disarm him, Born Ready squeezed the trigger, sending a bullet into her rubs.

  The Aston Martin’s engine revved and the car jerked as she mashed on the gas pedal. A few feet later the luxury car slammed into a Nissan parked at the stop light. Air bags deployed, slapping Queenie and Born Ready in the face.

  Dazed and wounded, Queenie limped from the wreck, holding her side, trying to stop the bleeding.

  Born Ready shook the stars from his head and noticed the driver’s door open. When he seen Queenie limping away, he lifted the 9mm and fired seven times. Three bullets landed in Queenie’s back, knocking her to the ground.

  The high-pitched sound of an engine made Born Ready look up just in time to see the Maserati slam into the passenger door of the Aston.

  Pop Somethin’ sprang from the sports car, the 50-caliber hand cannon clutched like an iron sword. He spotted Queenie on the ground, blood pooling around her body. He wanted to go to her, but he had to make sure Born Ready was dead. The last time he didn’t finish somebody off, Clutch shot him in the back and he did eight years in prison. So he crept toward the Aston, keeping the 50 ready. The car was mangled, the passenger door folded into Born Ready’s body, pinning him in the seat. A snarl was etched on the wounded man’s face as blood dripped from his mouth.

  Two slugs from the hand cannon tore his face open.

  It didn’t take Pop long to find the money and go check on Queenie. She lay on the ground, not moving as blood soaked her clothing. “Damn, baby.” Pop grieved, squatting down and rolling her over. Queenie moaned in agony, blood covering most of her face. Since the bullets were in her back, Pop knew he couldn’t move her for fear of more damage. Confusion spread through him. She was fucked up and needed help right away.

  Before he could make up his mind on what to do, sirens sounded in the distance, and thoughts of a prison cell flooded his mind. “I gotta go, baby,” Pop groaned, the thought of leaving her making his heart ache.

  “No,” Queenie moaned weakly, grabbing hold of his pant leg.

  “I can’t move you. I can’t take you wit’ me like this.”

  Tires screeching made Pop look up as Princess sprang from the Batmobile. She ran toward Pop and Queenie, a horrified look on her face. “No, no, no!”

  Pop snatched up the bag of money and grabbed Princess around the waist. “We gotta go. Police comin’!”

  “No!” Princess fought. “Put her in the car. We can’t leave her.”

  “She fucked up. If we move her, it might make it worse.”

  Princess continued struggling to get free. “No! I’m not leavin’ my sister. Let me go!”

  “We can’t save her, Princess. We gotta go. She gon’ slow us down. The sirens getting’ closer.”

  Princess’s fight to get her sister was no match for Pop’s strength. He had just shoved her in the Lambo when the first witness showed up, recording with their phone.

  ***

  “We can’t just leave her!” Princess screamed, opening the door as the Lamborghini raced away.

  Pop reached over and grabbed her arm. “Stop! Ain’t shit we can do. She was fucked up. If I woulda moved her, it woulda made it worse. The only chance she got is for them to get her to the hospital. She strong. She gon’ be good.” When the words left his mouth, Pop knew they were a lie. He had counted at least three bullets in Queenie’s back. Her internal organs were shredded. If she didn’t die in the streets, she would die on the way to the hospital.

  “Damn, Pop,” Princes cried, closing the door. “We left her. What if we coulda saved her?”

  “She got shot in the back. Her spinal cord mighta got hit. Movin’ her woulda made it worse. Ain’t no room in here for her, and we can’t risk us all gettin’ jammed trynna save her. She gon’ be good. When she get better, we gon’ go get her. For now we gotta get the fuck outta Atlanta and make sure we stay free. Ain’t nothin’ we can do for her if we get knocked.”

  Princess sank into the passenger seat as pain and guilt gripped her. She felt like the world had blown up all around her and she was the last person on Earth. The alpha woman who had spent her entire life protecting her was gone. The lioness was no longer roaring.

  Pop took his eyes off the road to glance at her. She looked broken. He could feel her pain, and he hoped She wasn’t damaged beyond repair.

  Instead of going home to grab their already packed bags, Pop hopped on the highway, heading for their new destination. The way he figured; the police were already searching their house because of the shooting. No need to risk their freedom over material shit. He had $200,000 in cash and another $200,000 in a safety deposit box he would probably never see again. The license he used to get the box was at home. But he had more than enough to make a new start. He had done more with less.

  After five hours on I-75 and a couple stops to get gas, he pulled into a small hotel in Jacksonville,
Florida. He paid the front desk for a room before checking into their sleeping quarters. During the drive, Princess didn’t talk much, and that didn’t change when they walked in the room.

  “You want me to get you somethin’?”

  Princess didn’t respond right away. She continued to stare up at the ceiling, a spaced out look on her face. “I want my sister.”

  “Don’t do this to yo’self. I know this hard, but you gotta focus on somethin’ else.”

  “I wish we didn’t leave her. It’s killin’ me that I don’t know if she still alive.” Then she sat up in bed, staring at Pop intently. “You said she was fucked up. How bad? Was she’ still talkin’?”

  “A li’l bit. It looked like he shot her in the back.”

  “Be real wit’ me, Pop. Do you think she gon’ live?”

  He paused to think. If he told the truth, that he thought Queenie died in the street, it would probably crush her. If he lied and said Queenie was still alive, it would probably make her feel good, but he didn’t like the thought of lying to his bitch. “I really don’t know. She strong. And she a fighter.”

  Princess’ face reflected a mix of optimism, pessimism, and exhaustion. “Damn, Pop. I can’t stop thinkin’ about her. I feel like it’s my fault. I just hope she don’t….” A painful sob racked her body as the tears began again.

  Pop sat next to her, wrapping her in his arms. “It’s gon’ be okay. I got you. I’ma always be here for you.”

  After a few minutes of comforting, Princess broke the embrace, staring up at Pop with a deep sadness in her eyes. “I know you don’t want me doin’ pills, but I need somethin’ to take my mind off. I can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout her. I just need somethin’ for tonight. Please.”

  Pop didn’t like the thought of her doing pills again. He had a hard time getting her off them, but it would help her relax. “I’ma go talk to the front desk to see where the strip clubs at. You stayin’ here or comin’?”