Get Even: A Michelle Angelique Urban Action Adventure Thriller Series Book #2 (Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Assassin)

by Lori Jean Grace

  GET EVEN

  Action Adventure Pulp Thriller Book #2

  Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Assassin Series

  (Adult Content & Strong Language)

  Lori Jean Grace

  and S. Jay Jackson

  If you don’t already have Sister’s Revenge, the book where it all started, you can get it free at Amazon.

  Also, if you are interested in being a select member of the limited Advanced Reader Team (ART) where you can get all of the Michelle Angelique books for free, check out the information at the back of the book.

  A full Table of Contents is at the back of the book

  One: Gangsters

  THE DEAD SMELL of cigarettes lingered in the outer office, the same way a previous tenant’s smoke clings to an upscale hotel room, even when masked with fresh linens and scented sprays. The more masculine inner office reeked of expensive Persian rugs, furniture polish, cigars, and scotch.

  The ambiance was as lost on D’andre as much as it was overwhelming to Sugar.

  “Hello, D’andre and Miss Sugar. Come in. Sit down. I presume Houston is treating you well.” From behind his large, sleek desk, Mr. Ascia, a middle‑aged Italian man, presided over the meeting. He neither stood nor offered to shake hands.

  D’andre swaggered in, glanced around, and plopped deep into the maroon upholstered chair in front of Ascia’s desk while Sugar, like a wary, skittish kitten in a strange house, appraised both the office and the man.

  They’d gathered in Ascia’s private office on the top floor of a seven‑story business building in downtown Houston. His outer office, private office, and apartment took up the entire floor.

  “Yeah, Texas is all right,” D’andre said. “You invited us here. What’s on yo’ mind?”

  Ignoring D’andre’s comment, Ascia caught Sugar’s stare. “Miss Sugar, would you like some coffee or something cold to drink?”

  Her eyes briefly darted over to D’andre. “No, thanks.”

  “How about you, D’andre?” he asked.

  D’andre slowly turned his head toward Sugar, eyes narrowing down to slits, and without looking at Ascia, he said, “I’m good.”

  Ascia smiled and leaned back. His leather executive chair silently tilted. “I brought you here to discuss our interests in Anglewatts. The recent assassinations of Mr. Jackson and Mr. Lewis have created a large hole in the organization. BamBam moved up, and now the volume of orders has dropped off. We’re seriously disappointed in the way BamBam’s conducting business.”

  “So, what does that mean to me?” D’andre asked.

  “Your clients don’t give a shit who they buy from,” Ascia said. “They only care if the product is good. Our product remains the same month after month, year after year. A drop in volume on our end always points back to the merchant on the streets. What can you tell me about BamBam’s operation?”

  D’andre shifted in his seat. “Why should I conversate with you about that?”

  “We’re businessmen,” Ascia said. “We’ve been doing this for a long time. Our partnership provides several advantages BamBam doesn’t seem to understand. Mr. Jackson gave us a reliable retail program for the Anglewatts area, and in return, we supplied him with high‑quality products at a fair price. BamBam appears to be purchasing local product from the Mexicans.”

  “So?” D’andre shrugged. “They got the best prices. Like you said, it’s a bidness.”

  “Yes, you can buy your product cheaper that way, but that’s what we call a false economy. Hidden costs always screw you in the end; costs that come with unreliable quality and even more unreliable delivery. Also, the Mexicans’ organization is highly visible, making them a primary target for the DEA.”

  “Yeah, our bidness is fast‑paced. We need to be flexible, responding to the market and competition. The Mexicans are able to meet our demands any time we ask them for more.”

  “Right now, that may be true. But for how long?” Ascia walked to a built‑in bar on a side wall behind D’andre and Sugar.

  Sugar’s gaze followed Ascia.

  D’andre quickly stood, facing him, and leaned back against the edge of the desk. “For as long as we want.”

  Holding a cut‑glass bottle, Ascia looked at D’andre. “History disagrees.” He turned his back. The ground glass stopper clinked lightly as he pulled it out, then he poured a single finger of scotch and walked back to his chair.

  D’andre settled into his own chair, again facing Ascia.

  “They have two problems that, as sure as shit, will be passed on to you,” Ascia said. “Their quality is too variable; sometimes it’s okay, even good, then the next batch will be crap. We’ve found the end users are always most loyal to the quality of dope; they don’t give a shit where it comes from or who’s selling it.”

  “Dope fiends’ll buy what I sell them,” D’andre said.

  “For a while. But that’s not the only issue. The other problem is basic supply. Granted, at this time, the Mexicans can respond immediately when you need more product, which is only good for when they’re in business. Sooner or later, the DEA will make a big bust, cutting out their delivery chain, or worse. You don’t want to be a part of the drought; you want to be the guy with a solid machine supporting your product supply.”

  “Why me?”

  Ascia paused, steepled his fingers, and leaned back in his chair. “BamBam worked closely with Lewis, but he always dealt more with muscle than operations. We know you’re used to running a more complete operation. We’re looking to replace Mr. Jackson with someone of vision, someone who has a broader business perspective. Someone who will do the smart thing.”

  “Yeah, I’m used to doing all aspects of bidness and running my own crew.”

  “We’re aware of that.” Ascia sat upright in his chair and laced his fingers. “Apparently, BamBam prefers to run a less‑consistent operation. He’s more focused on immediate, short‑term gains than on building reliable relationships. In this business, real success, even survival, is about solid relationships. With good relationships, you stay in business and on the streets. Without them, sooner or later you wind up in the joint, dealing with prison shit every day instead of running your operation. In there, thinking about who’s screwing your wife or taking over your business are your only real freedoms.”

  “I don’t plan on doing no joint time.”

  “Nobody does.” Ascia paused, then added, “We think you might be the man to fill Mr. Jackson’s recently vacated position.”

  Silence filled the office, and Sugar glanced from Ascia to D’andre, who both sat quietly.

  D’andre broke the silence. “What do you need from me?”

  “Before we discuss that,” Ascia said, “let’s review Miss Sugar’s involvement.”

  Sugar’s attention snapped to Ascia. “And what’s my involvement with y’all?”

  “Well, Sugar, prior to Mr. Jackson’s untimely demise, we were negotiating spreading into other operations. You run the prostitution end of the business. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah. And . . . ?”

  “Would you agree that obtaining motivated talent is one of the hardest parts of your business?”

  “That, and keeping them from going off with some dickwad boyfriend.”

  “Exactly. Our interests can help each other. We can provide you with attractive, professional women who are much better off working
in one of our partner’s organizations than where they came from. Working for you is a good deal for them, and they’re grateful for the opportunity. You’ll make a lot more money as a partner with us than you would running your own lower‑quality women. But I don’t want to get too far ahead of things, here. We can only help you if we can come to a satisfactory arrangement with D’andre.”

  “So you’re saying you can bring new women to my bidness?” Sugar asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Where do they come from? I won’t mess with a bunch of strawberries. Crack hos are more trouble than they’re worth.”

  “They come from Eastern Europe; none are strawberries.”

  “They’re White women?”

  “Most. A few might be Asian. Now, D’andre,” he said, “back to your question of what we want from you. First, it’s about creating trust. We need to believe that you can control the local population and you can start building our trust by proving you can handle rival interests or challenges from inside your own organization.”

  “You mean you want me to take out BamBam and his crew,” D’andre said, more as a statement than a question.

  “If you show us you can take control of a loose situation, then you can depend on our full backing. We can supply you with product, and women for Sugar’s operation. Also, just as important, we can support you with our political connections.”

  “No problem,” D’andre said. “You hang on, you’ll see I’m all about bidness.”

  “I’m counting on it,” Ascia replied.

  *

  Standing on the front walk of the United Terminal at Bush International Airport, Sugar watched Ascia’s limo drive away. “D,” she said, “you can’t trust those muthafuckas.”

  “I don’t plan on trusting them or nobody else,” D’andre said.

  “So what are you gonna do?”

  “A couple things. First, I need to pull some more guys into my crew and then hit BamBam. But I need to create a distraction. It’s smarter to run up on him when he’s looking in a different direction.”

  “Remember when Michael and Gabe Jr. got killed a few years ago?” Sugar asked. “You probably didn’t know Michael’s sister; she was a kid when it happened. Well, she’s back in town, been here a few months, and she and some of her friends jacked a creep named Jerome.”

  “What the hell does jacking some fool have to do with me taking over Lewis’ operation?”

  “You said you needed a distraction, so hear me out.”

  “All right,” he said. “I’m listening.”

  “Apparently they did this mofo pretty good. Shot one of his balls off.”

  “Some bitch shoot me in the balls, she and all her friends are dead! No shit, there’d be blood in the streets, a ho try any shit like that.”

  “Yeah, seems the rest of the women think Jerome feels the same way. They expect him to make a run at some of them. Thing is, it’s that rooty‑poot Jerome who hangs at the park playing dominoes. He used to work at the Pep Boys car parts.”

  “Sure, I know who he is. He’s a punk. No wonder some woman got the drop on him and shot his dumb ass.”

  “Well, I think we can use him to make the distraction you want.”

  Two: It’s a Girl Thing

  MICHELLE CHECKED DARYL’S EYES. They were closed, and his breath came deep and slow. She tiptoed around to his side of the bed. On the way, her restrained giggle nearly escaped. Then she raised her hand to swat him . . .

  With perfect timing, Daryl spun and, catching her trying to slap him on the ass, grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her onto the bed across his lap. He landed two quick taps on her fine, naked ass.

  “You win,” she said. Dressed only in a big smile, Michelle hopped up and, sitting astraddle on him, did a little wiggle. His immediate reaction brought a different kind of smile to her lips. Daryl pushed against her, making his desire clear, while in between them, the sheet prevented everything but hid nothing.

  “So, big boy, what’s on your mind? I’m free all morning.”

  “I shouldn’t,” he groaned and checked the clock on the nightstand. “I’m opening the store today . . . How fast are you willing to be?” he asked hopefully.

  “Forget fast. I don’t like fast. You know I like to take my time when we’re here in the crib.”

  “Yeah, and I so appreciate it, too. But it’s getting pretty late. I guess I can run along like a good little schoolboy.”

  “No argument? You’re giving up that easy, like it’s no big deal?”

  He pulled the sheet out from between them. “I’m never in that big a hurry. Fast doesn’t necessarily mean quick. I can be fast and good—like in The Fast and the Furious. Ready for sequel number four?”

  “Just this once. And only because last night you were all that and a big bag of chips.”

  Daryl had become Michelle’s “good fucking buddy,” her GFB. Fantastic in bed, he had a wonderful sense of humor and didn’t take himself too seriously; a gentleman who didn’t press her for anything she didn’t give freely.

  More than just a few furious moments later, sweat glistening, lying on their backs, side by side, arms and legs linked, Michelle and Daryl caught their breath.

  He rolled his head to look at the clock on the night stand. “Damn, girl! Now I’ll be late to work.”

  “Yeah, and you try telling me it wasn’t worth it.”

  “So worth it, and more. But I’m still late. It’s a good thing I can tell the guys how fine you are in the sack. I need something to take their minds off of having to wait for me to open the doors.” He quickly raised a pillow against the playful fist coming his way.

  “I’ll call Scott while you’re in the shower,” Michelle said. “Breakfast will be waiting to go at the diner. Now get your butt out of my bed before I change my mind and don’t let you go to work all day.”

  *

  After Daryl left, Michelle spent a couple of early hours in the gym working through Muay Thai drills and some practice Brazilian jujitsu grappling bouts. She didn’t have time to do any strength training or stretching work because she needed to get to Miss Betty’s for a Pussy Squad meeting.

  Driving over to Miss Betty’s, Michelle thought about how much fun the morning had been with Daryl. She was enjoying having sex with the same man, learning the little things that helped make it even more fantastic.

  Men—can’t live with them, can’t live without them. Fucking Jerome, why did he have to be such a rat bastard?

  Miss Betty met Michelle at the door, wrapping Michelle into her traditional big, genuine hug. Miss Betty never gave stingy, A‑frame “cheek” hugs; she gave all‑encompassing, full‑body hugs most women reserved for little children. This hug, plus the bright sunshine that filled living room, and the rich, tangy aroma of mustard greens wafting in from the kitchen, made the homecoming welcome.

  “Hey, guys.” Michelle smiled at Deja and Nikky, who were setting the dining table with an array of lunch items.

  “Sup?” they answered.

  “Michelle, before everybody shows up,” Miss Betty said, “I want to ask you something.”

  “I’ll answer if I can. What’s on your mind?”

  “What happened with Jerome?”

  Michelle glanced up at her friends, then tugged on Miss Betty’s arm. “Come on into the kitchen with me,” she replied.

  In the small, tidy kitchen, Michelle pulled out a tray of cut vegetables from the refrigerator, then leaned against the Formica counter. “Miss Betty, we go way back with a deep history, so I can tell you. But for everybody’s sake, we need to talk alone.”

  “Don’t Nikky and Deja know?” Miss Betty asked.

  “Sure they do. But as much as possible, I like to keep conversations private. It’s safer for everyone.”

  “Okay, that makes sense. So what happened?”

  “He blacked Deja’s eye, so I tried to convince him that was a bad idea. First time I sh
ot him, I barely grazed him on the side; mostly a scratch to send the message I was back in town and he needed to clean up his act if he wanted to stay with Deja. Too bad it turned out he’s hard‑headed and didn’t get the message. A couple of weeks later, apparently he was drunk enough to be foolish, but not drunk enough to be sloppy when he ran into Nikky at the 7‑Eleven. So he acted like the ass he is and beat her pretty bad, kicked her when she was down.”

  “Bastard.” Miss Betty scowled. “No wonder you wanted to shoot his balls off.”

  “Yeah, I thought it was time to get serious and hurt him bad, but Deja wasn’t ready to be done with him yet. So I popped a couple of caps in his ass. They were only flesh wounds, but a lot more serious than the first time. He had to go to the hospital for a little patch‑up work.”

  “You didn’t shoot him in the balls?” Miss Betty asked.

  “No. That didn’t come until later. He showed he was a coward by knocking Deja around; showed he was mean by kicking Nikky when she was on the ground. Then he proved how stupid he was. I’d already had the drop on him two times, and both times I pulled the trigger while looking him in the eye. He had to understand I’d kill him if I had to, yet the stupid fool snitched to the police—”

  “Hi, Miss Betty. Hey, Michelle,” T‑Dog said, strolling into the kitchen. “I’m the first one here, but there’s a big group coming up the walk behind me. What can I do to help?”

  “Here, take in these vegetables and dip,” Miss Betty said. “We’ll be right behind you.”

  T‑Dog nodded and left, veggie tray in hand.

  “I hear the others coming in now,” Michelle said in a low voice. “Anyway, that’s about it. After he snitched, he lost his ball.”

  “Here”—Miss Betty handed Michelle a large pitcher of lemonade—“carry this out with you.”

  *

  The women, who called themselves the Pussy Squad, filled Miss Betty’s living room, eating lunches from plates balanced on their knees as they discussed the hood.

  “My girls tell me things are strange ever since Lewis was killed,” T‑Dog said. “Most of the corners are still running with the same crews, but it’s not solid. The streets won’t stay calm much longer; something big’s gonna happen before things shake out.”