by Renta
“Chu are the baass,” she screamed.
I laid there satiated but tried to put all the pieces to the puzzle together. My manz, Pablo told me a big shipment of ‘Boy’ was on its way to the spot as we spoke. Pablo was Belle’s relative that headed the El Sai out of Cali. He was the new plug for the fam now that Belle’s pops had got whacked by the boy, Russia. Speaking of homie, his silence had been paramount, that’s what fucked with me. Although, he didn’t know what I looked like, or where I squatted at, I knew men like him were relentless.
“Wha is it, David—chu seem distant, and after you’ve partaken of tis sweet poosy, me no understand hum?” Belle rolled onto her stomach and propped her face in her hands, she stared at me quizzically.
“It’s nothing, mama, shit just been moving at the speed of light and this boy, Russia, is too silent. To top that off, these Piru niggaz wildin’ and makin’ shit hot ‘round the way.” I exhaled a breath of frustration.
I thought ‘bout steppin’ to Assata and revealing myself. I knew real street niggaz didn’t respect new faces, and before shit went up in smoke, me and homie had an understanding.
“Chu worry ‘bout noting! Russia, si—him mos be dealth with vedy soon. Time is of te essence, and the Holy Death waits for no man. The Pidu—” Belle stated.
“Piru,” I corrected her.
“Si—whatever—they noting! Chu have mi cousin and his army at chu desposal. Chu chos focus on Russia and tis poosy and chu will be vedy rich man,” she said, as she reached over and grabbed a handful of my nature.
***
~Lovey~
A huge lion with a thick mane walked into the clearing, eyes aflame and aggression in its stance. There in the far corner of the meadow, a huge tiger sat poised on his sharp claws, with anticipation electrifying in its eyes. The sky darkened, grey clouds covered as the two predators stared each other down. The king of the jungle versus the carnivore of Asian folklore. A streak of lightning splashed across Heaven's floors, and as if that wasn’t a signal to battle, the two beasts clashed in a vicious meeting of contempt.
Their Claws slashed, their teeth sunk into flesh. The tiger slashed across the lion’s thick mane, taking a patch from it. Yet, the lion was ferocious in its attack, a loud roar escaped its jaws as it sank razor-like teeth into the throat of its formidable foe, only to take a deep slash across the face. Back and forth, the battle exchanged power between the two until a lightning fast tumble ensued with the tiger ending up on top of the king of the jungle. Something like victory swam in his eyes, the tiger roared in defiance, sharp teeth dribbled saliva as the ancient cat growled. Rain began to tumble from the dark sky and just as a powder blue tint bullied its way into the darkness, an earth shattered roar could be heard, as the tiger opened its powerful jaws and clamped down on the throat of the king.
Then— “Lord!” Lovey popped straight up out of her sleep. Her skin was aglow as perspiration and anxiety oozed from her pores. She slid from the bed and kneeled beside it with her hands in the prayer position. “Lord, I’ve been your humble servant my whole life. I’ve not always been as righteous, but God, I’ve left my unclean life behind years ago. You’ve lead me through the shadow of death and laid me down in green pastures. I don’t ask for much, but I need you to protect my babies. I’m no saint Father, but I do my best. My only request is that if you must, take me before you take them, my heart is too fragile to be standing over their caskets. Please, God—take me before you take them is my sacrifice. In Jesus name, Amen.”
Clairvoyance snaked through her veins as she felt another presence somewhere near, but suddenly it was gone, as quick as it appeared. Goose had overheard her talking while on his way to the bathroom. He stopped to make sure she was okay, and found his heart broken, as he listened to his Queen ask God to take her life in place of her babies.
Part III
Get Ya Manz
Last night, I played chess against my soul. As we sat down for the game, I studied the board intently. I decided to move the pawn that would allow my Queen to move as she pleased. I observed as my soul duplicated my move. In an attempt at creating a diversion, I decided to move my knight in a position to be taken. This simple move would merely be a sacrifice for my strategy, but to my frustration—my soul mirrored my move once again.
This instantly continued until finally, my soul exclaimed, “Checkmate!” I stared at the board in awe.
“Soul—why did you copy my every move? How did you checkmate me, when your every move was a reflection of my own?” My soul smiled wearily.
“Assata—your first mistake was going against me, “your soul!” A man and his soul are one! When a man goes to war with his soul, he becomes lost. You were so busy trying to use your Queen that you never took the time to protect her, she is you. Observation is key. You and I should never be opponents—whenever we become two, we become enemies. You, your Queen, and I are like the divine trinity, except—rather than the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—we’re Mind, Body, and Soul! That’s the ordination of man—what makes him, God—Cypher!”
Chapter Fourteen
Get Ya Manz—Get That Bag
~Two Weeks Later-7 a.m.~
The morning was brisk. The early morning commuters tried to beat the traffic that the day was sure to bring. On the corner of Fry Street, a young man in a Brooks Brothers suit, stood with a Rough and Tumble Suede Bottega, Veneta Sachel in one hand and a steaming Starbucks cup in the other. He watched the traffic, as his eyes rotated back and forth between his Breitling wristwatch and the doors to the Wells Fargo. Impatience stirred within him, as he waited. He could use the ATM, but the withdrawal he needed to make was too big, so there he stood—waiting.
“Five more minutes,” he huffed.
He lifted his eyes at the sound of oncoming traffic and watched as two U-Hauls pulled up to the curb, blocking his view of the bank.
“Damn,” he hissed in frustration.
He needed to get the money out of his account before he had to clock in on the job. He tapped his foot against the pavement, as he observed an armored truck pulled in front of the U-Haul. A few moments later, the passenger exited the vehicle. He observed his surroundings with keen eyes as he made his way to the rear of the truck, with his hands tight around the pump action Mossberg. He opened the rear doors, and three fully armed uniforms jumped down, with weapons in hand as they took up their stations.
The passenger and one of them entered the bank. The young man on the corner stood agitated—swearing at the time. He could have been made his withdrawal and been on his way to his white-collared occupation. He knew better than attempting to approach the bank while the armored truck made their pick up, so he sat tight and awaited their departure. Twenty minutes later, he watched as the truck was filled with bags of money and secured before it pulled off. He made his way towards the bank wondering why the hell would two U-Hauls be parked in front of a bank. Security must have had the same thoughts because as he stepped behind the second U-Haul, he heard the argument between the drivers in the first truck and the security men.
As he passed, he nodded good morning to the driver of the second U-Haul. He continued to pass until he reached the back of the truck, then he dropped to one knee, and opened his Satchel. He pulled out a rubber mask of Obama’s face, put it on to a snugged fit, before pulling out a modified Tech 9 equipped with an eight-inch cooling system. He gazed around before turning to the back of the U-Haul and unlocking it. He counted down the seconds in his head. The door rolled up and forty-four men in identical attire spilled onto the concrete.
The only differences were the faces of the president masks and caliber of weapons. After hearing the commotion, one of the security personnel turned to investigate. He bent the corner of the truck and walked into one of the most mind-boggling scenes he had ever set eyes on. Every president that had ever been in office stared back at him.
Obama swung the Tech on him. “Don’t be no hero, homeboy,” the masked man said.
He gave a signal and forty-thre
e presidents bummed rushed the bank. The second officer was caught off guard as he reached for his weapon, but the sight of Donald Trump aiming a .50 caliber Desert Eagle, froze him in motion. Keeping the monstrous gun trained on him, he unlatched the second U-Haul, and out poured twelve vice presidents, yet rather than following the first group, they milled about on the sidewalk. Suddenly, it was hard for the guard to get a grip on reality, as he stood stunned with his hands in the air. Trump relieved him of his weapon before Lyndon B. Johnson put the steel to the back of his head.
“Stand still, homie, let’s not turn a robbery into a capital murda,” he hissed, as Trump opened his satchel and pulled out a contraption with different color wires attached to a timer. He held it out to the officer. “Hold this.”
The officer he stared at him bewildered and sweating profusely. “Hold it? Why—why would I do that?” asked the officer.
“Maybe because your life depends on it,” Johnson whispered in his ear, as he pushed the barrel harder against his head.
Not wanting to push his luck, the guard accepted the bomb. Trump instructed him how to hold it by placing his hands on either side of it. He pushed his thumbs down on two different detonators.
“There—keep your hands just like that! This beauty is what we call pressure bombs. If you change your grip on it, even the slightest, the pressure change communicates to the detonator, and in seconds you go ‘boom’! So, stay still, and be good.”
***
~Detective Winslet~
9:15 a.m.
“That’s it—he made you do what? I can’t believe this wacko! That’s it, I am pulling you out of this operation! It’s getting too dangerous,” Hunter heatedly said.
I’d just told him about the warehouse. I had to, my life had become so different since I had been on this case. For one, unbeknownst to him, the past week I’d been numb to everything. Goose and I had a heart to heart—we fought—we kissed—we fought again—and finally, I compromised the entire investigation. We made love—rough—passionate—emotional love! The bomb he dropped on me was, and still was exploding within the walls of my mind. I’m surprised that my nerves didn’t have me shaking, yet I damn sure wouldn’t be surprised if I started to.
“Winslet—you hear what I just said?” Hunter stared at me sternly, yet before I could answer him, the radio squawked.
“All available officers report to Fry and West. The silent alarm at the Wells Fargo has been tripped! I repeat—all available officers, code red, Fry, and West!”
Hunter and I looked to each other astonished. He flicked the squad lights on the grill of the supped up Dodge Charger, as he did an illegal u-turn, and put the pedal to the floor. He must had forgotten, he was not supposed to be on duty, but I assumed that was the last thing on his mind, as he bent a sharp corner at a devastating speed that almost flipped us. We were only six blocks away from the bank, so it didn’t take us long to bend the corner to Fry Street. We pulled to a stop about twenty feet away from the crime scene, and what we saw blew our minds!
It was crazy—confusing—brilliant! John Nance Garner, Richard M. Nixon, Gerald R. Ford—Vice Presidents dressed in suits congregate outside the bank. They walked back and forth in front of the entrance to create a strange effect. The assault rifles they brandish warned anyone that wanted to play hero that the stand-off will last for days. Hunter called it in, notifying the dispatcher that we were on the scene. The flashing lights must have caught the perps’ attention because they all stopped their pacing and looked straight at us.
Nixon said something to his cohorts and in formation, they turned and disappeared into the bank, leaving behind a lone security guard holding something in his hands. He looked petrified. Hunter pushed his door open with force and without letting me know his intentions, attempted to pursue the fleeing group of men.
“Hunter,” I screamed his name.
His back was to me as he unholstered his pistol. Without turning to face me, he spoke over his shoulder. “Dammit, Winslet, it’s a bank robbery in progress!”
“Listen, before we go in guns blazing. I just want to tell you I’m sorry!”
“Sorry,” he asked, finally turning his head to look at me.
His eyes exploded in surprise before the lick of the flame escaped the barrel of the 9mm that Goose gave me just for this occasion. Hunter’s head snapped back—still contorted with that look of surprise. Yet, now he had the mark of Buddha to his temple. In slow motion, he fell forward, and as soon as he did I got to work. First, I text Goose the code to let him know the deed was done and to go through with the next phase of the plan.
My nerves were wild, but I wasn’t worried about anything coming back to me. For one, Hunter wasn’t even supposed to be on duty, let alone responding to the alert. Secondly, well, a girl can’t reveal all of her secrets. I snatched the radio off the seat and screamed, “Shots fired—shots fired! Nine-nine-nine! Nine-nine-nine! Nine-nine-nine,” as I yelled the code for officer down.
***
Keith Urban played softly within the armored truck, as the driver pushed a questionable ninety miles per hour on a lone blacktop in route to their destination.
“You have more of that long cup Copenhagen, Joey?” he asked the passenger, as his crave for the smokeless tobacco ate at his nerves.
Joey sang along with the country song as he reached in his back pocket and pulled out a fresh can of mint snuff. He passed it to, Bob, the driver, as a roaring engine caught his attention. His eyes absently traveled to the huge side view mirror attached to the truck. His eyes stretched wide in excitement as a lone rider in a red leather streaked past them with the front wheel of a black and red, KTM 1290 Super Duke, in the air.
“He has to be pushing a hundred or more on that thing, doing a wheelie! He’s a fucking psycho,” he exclaimed.
Bob spit in his cup and didn’t acknowledge the wildman. He viewed his own mirror to make sure the tail was still with them, spotting the deputy, he was about to turn his attention back to the road, until something out of place caught his eye. A caravan of bikes, and what looked to be one of those Rubicon Jeep Wranglers was coming up fast. The fear that eased its way into his nervous system was unwarranted. This was the very first time he’d seen this type of enjoyment on this road.
Yet, it was no surprise because of its infrequent traffic. As they get closer he noticed it was the fucking Hell’s Angels and something didn’t sit right with him.
“Joey, something is up, call it in and—”
Bob’s words get caught up in his throat as a red crotch-rocket zoomed alongside them, at the same time, the CB sparked to life.
“Boys, I think we have a problem we—” oblivious to what the deputy had said, they watched as the driver of the motorcycle handled the powerful beast expertly. It was the passenger that aimed a strange device at the side of the truck that had their attention. The devices discharged what looked to be a metal prong, it lodged itself to the truck, and an instant shockwave erupted from it. The country song cut off, and the radio scrambled. Joey snatched the radio off the dash and attempted to call it in.
“National One to base; we’re under attack—I repeat—we’re under attack!” He started at the CB as if it was offensive and tried again—and again, but he might as well had been talking to himself.
All satellite communication was blocked. The device that the riders attached to the side of the truck was a communications scrambler. It was a tool the CIA used to deflect national radio transmissions.
“The fucking radio is scrambled, Bob—its blocked! Oh God, this is bad—oh God—"
As if God found it funny, automatic gunfire erupted behind them. They glanced in the rearview and watched in horror as the deputy’s car fishtailed out of control, as motorcycles on both sides fire into it. As if they’d done this type of thing a million times, the riders created a wide octagon around the swerving car before speeding ahead as it swerved violently into the wide expanse of land, flipping as it rolled into a trench.
&nb
sp; “Joey,” A voice came from the cab of the truck.
“Bob, what the hell’s going on?”
“It’s a fucking robbery you dip shit!” Joey screamed as he jacked a shell into the Mossberg pump.
At the same time, five bikes zoomed in front of them forming a triangular barrier. In the rearview, Bob watched as the same formation was made. By now, he was pushing the truck at a dangerous hundred miles per hour. Unexpectedly, gunfire ensued from the back, it was no doubt the three trained men in the back that vowed their lives to protect the U.S currency.
“Step on it, Bob—these motherfuckers are going to kill us!” Thomas screamed from the rear.
The jeep sped by, but not before a small black object was thrown on the back door of the truck. As it sped past, a masked gunman fired a burst of heat at the window. It merely scratched the bulletproof glass, yet—he smiled as if he knew the world’s best-kept secret, and twenty seconds later, it was revealed. The motorcade opened up to reveal a line of spikes thrown over the road. They were surrounded on both sides, and the only way to avoid the trap laid ahead was by sideswiping their pursuers.
Bob was a devoted Christian, and his heart wouldn’t allow him to do it, but about five feet away from the spiked trap, Joey reached over and yanked the wheel to the right.
“You fucking imbecile,” he screamed, as the truck veered violently off the road, but not before the front left tire was punctured. The truck flipped into the air instantly killing three bikers but turning the tides into the crook’s favor.
***
Inside the bank, President Obama watched as his cohorts gained control of the room. He observed everything, even the little white man that just pushed the button to the silent alarm hidden under the desk. Everything was going as planned, he thought before a beautiful woman was brought from the back room. He’d seen her before—in fact, he’d been seeing her consistently since the day she gave herself to him. The man that found her in her hiding place mishandled her, and that set aflame to Obama’s temper.
