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

by Lori Jean Grace

  I know him. He sometimes meets me with Ascia.

  Michelle didn’t have time to steady her breath or her shot. She aimed and reflexively double tapped—BLAM! BLAM!

  The man spun to his left, pulling his trigger as he fell—BLAM!—and hit the ground.

  She heard three shots, almost in unison, come from behind the two cars—BLAM! BAM! BLAM!—and Michelle did another reflexive double tap—BLAM! BLAM! The man stopped moving.

  Motion near the van caught her attention—Oh shit!–as the guy behind the passenger door ran toward the tree. In a few more steps, he’d be on Trevon’s man with a clear shot.

  BLAM!—her first shot missed. BLAM!—the second hit the running man in the arm. He continued on for another step, then one more until—BLAM!—her third shot hit him center mass. He pitched forward onto the grass and landed where he had a clear shot at Gus.

  Michelle saw the man’s gun buck twice as he double tapped—BLAM! BLAM!

  He didn’t get off a third round. Michelle fired twice—BLAM! BLAM!—and one shot hit him. It was enough. His arm dropped, and the gun fell from his open hand.

  Shots still rang out from behind the van and Trevon’s car. Michelle couldn’t see who was shooting, so she crawled back into the bedroom, then ran down the stairs, three at a time.

  She blew through the front door and jumped over the side porch rail, into the low shrubs. Hugging the house, she scooted toward where she could see behind the van. On the way, she noticed the sliding side door was closed. The door had been open earlier. When had it been closed? And who closed it?

  A few steps farther, she saw two men shooting at Trevon’s car. From hours of repetition, she automatically developed a two‑handed, steady‑hold position with one arm locked and knees bent. She took fast aim and pulled the trigger—BLAM! Going for a head shot, her bullet hit her target in the neck. He staggered a single step away from her. She double tapped—BLAM! BLAM!—into center mass. He pitched forward, landing facedown on the asphalt. He lay still.

  The second man jumped back behind the van. Michelle had a clear shot so she squeezed off a round. Inches away from the man’s head, the van’s rear window spidered. He dropped, whirled around. It saved his life. A second bullet whizzed over his head. He jumped around to the front of the car, and took off running up the street.

  The silence became enormous.

  “Trevon, you all right?” someone shouted.

  Trevon shouted back, “Yeah, you?”

  “I got nicked, but I’m okay.”

  Sugar and Nikky busted out through Betty’s front door.

  Holding her 9mm in a two‑handed grip, Nikky made a one‑eighty sweep. Michelle pointed at Gus and gave the thumbs‑up sign, then put her finger over her lips signaling to be quiet. Nikky nodded. By the tree, Gus held his hands up, showing he was unarmed. Next, Michelle held up her hand to stop Nikky from moving forward, and pointed to the van. Nikky nodded again.

  Michelle’s training drilled it into her to automatically count her shots. She’d counted eleven. She started out with a full load—fifteen in the magazine, one in the pipe. The remaining five had to be enough, because she didn’t have any spare magazines with her.

  Sugar ran past Nikky, across the yard and around the corner of the van.

  Michelle again signaled for Nikky to stay where she was. Nikky nodded. With her gun in a two‑handed hold, she crouched next to the dead man on the lawn.

  Michelle stepped back to see Sugar standing still, looking at the dead man. Gasping, she ran to him, grabbed him by the shoulder, gave him a quick shake, and then rolled his limp body over. Dead eyes stared up at the sky.

  She shook him again. “D’andre! Goddammit, D!” Then she ran full‑out toward her car.

  Ten seconds later, Michelle heard burning rubber as Sugar sped away.

  Michelle nodded to Nikky, and headed toward the van.

  Nikky crossed the lawn diagonally, but Michelle reached the van a half‑step before her.

  A man slumped dead in the passenger seat. Across from him, shot and bleeding badly but conscious, Jerome sprawled across the driver’s seat with his right shoulder wedged between the two seat backs. His right hand rested on his lap, still clutching his 9mm, barrel pointed toward the floor.

  A shallow breath moved Jerome’s chest. He looked up at Michelle. “I’m shot bad. I need a doctor.”

  Nikky stepped in beside Michelle and smiled. “Hey, Jerome, you chickenshit muthafucka.”

  “I’m shot bad. I need a doctor.”

  “No, Jerome.” She shook her head. “I’m not getting you a doctor. I’m going to kill you right here, right now.”

  “No, Nikky, please. I didn’t mean no trouble before. I really need a doctor. I’ll die if you don’t take me to the hospital.”

  “That’s right,” Nikky said. “You’re dying here today. And it’s me who’s going to kill you. I’m doing it for what you did to Taye, you lowlife rat bastard sonuvabitch.”

  His gun hand jerked.

  BLAM!

  Inside the mostly empty cargo van, the single shot sounded like an explosion. Jerome’s head bounced back against the seat and then fell forward. His hand fell back into his lap, his gun thudding to the floor. Blood oozed out of the small hole above the bridge of his nose.

  Nikky lowered her gun.

  Nice shot . . . A part of Michelle—the cold, professional, evaluating part—admired that Nikky had hit Jerome in the perfect “right between the eyes” killing shot. Before she had time to reflect on the absurdity of her evaluating the efficiency of her lifelong friend taking a human life, she saw a small movement past Jerome.

  Two, empty, open hands shot up from behind the driver’s seat.

  “Show your muthafuckin face—now!” Michelle yelled.

  Hands held high, a small man peeked out.

  Nikky stepped around to the side door and started to open it . . .

  “No! Wai—” Michelle began when—

  BLAM!

  —one shot rang out from inside the van through the partly opened door. Another shooter was in back. The bullet whizzed past Nikky to crease low across the front of Michelle’s shirt. Spinning, gun up, she almost pulled the trigger as Nikky’s head moved past her sights.

  A fresh shot of adrenaline hit her system, and Michelle felt time slow down. Already fast, things moved faster—a lot faster as her thinking and reflexes jammed into super‑high gear. All in the same short time, she thought more, saw more, understood more.

  Whipping her head toward the back of the van, Michelle noted the ongoing details of the situation. She also anticipated who’d move and where they were headed. As the man crouching in the back corner raised his gun, she felt, more than saw, Nikky spring into action.

  But this was more than just adrenaline. Michelle had trained her mind to stay alert, assess and act on real needs and discard distractions in a crisis situation.

  Her trainer had called it “unconscious competence” and as Nikky lunged into the van, Michelle remembered the whole conversation from several years ago.

  “What the hell is unconscious competence?” demanded a once‑determined and defiant young Michelle.

  “It is when you are automatically competent,” her teacher replied.

  “That doesn’t tell me shit.”

  “Okay, little one. As a one‑year‑old child, you were not aware you could not drive a car.”

  “That’s stupid. No baby knows they can’t drive a car.”

  “Yes, they are unconsciously incompetent to drive.”

  “So what?”

  “When you were a seven‑year‑old child, you knew you could not drive.”

  “Again, that’s stupid. No seven‑year‑old kid can drive.”

  “Yes, all seven‑year‑old American children know about driving. They see many people drive cars or buses. They will also tell you they can’t drive. They are consciously incompetent.”

  “Again, s
o what?”

  “When you first learned to drive, everything was difficult. You had to carefully think about each action. Do you remember how you felt the first time you drove on a city street?”

  “I was so nervous I might wreck my brother’s car. He would’ve killed me for a single scratch.”

  “At that point, you could execute the function—basically do the thing—but you had to think of every step. You were consciously competent.”

  “Yeah, driving took a lot of concentration. Like concentrating on many of the jujitsu moves you’ve shown me here.”

  “Exactly. Now when you drive, you do many actions automatically. You are an unconsciously competent driver.”

  Then her teacher moved slightly, and Michelle was again flat on her back, with the wind knocked out of her. “You may be unconsciously competent driving a car, but you are not competent in blocking most moves that will land you on your backside.”

  The memory came as a single flash unit, barely taking any time, and Michelle mentally smiled at the recollection. Nikky had no idea how close she came to accidentally being shot.

  Shooting as she dove, Nikky landed on her shoulder on the floor of the van—BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!—and plastered the inside back with bullets.

  With blood pumping out of three holes in his chest, the man tried to raise his gun when—

  BLAM!

  —another shot rang out and a fourth hole appeared in his chest. A line of holes stitched up from his stomach almost to his throat. He sagged against the back doors, his eyes losing focus as he died.

  “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, please, Jesus, don’t shoot me!” the other man cried out, hands still high over his head.

  Nikky flipped over to come face‑to‑face with him and, in a blur of movement, her 9mm came around. She pulled the trigger—Silence.

  The slide on her pistol was in the locked‑open position. She’d emptied her magazine into the back of the van and the now‑dead man. Nikky and the other man froze, his eyes big as saucers and locked on Nikky’s face. Nikky held her empty gun on him.

  “Michelle, this is Trevon and Gus. We’re coming up; we’re a couple of steps behind you. Don’t shoot us. Nod if you heard me.”

  Without looking back, Michelle nodded once, then stepped over to where Nikky’s legs stuck out the van’s door. “Nikky, Nikky, this is Michelle,” she called out as she moved forward. She leaned in. With her gun pointed at the man, Michelle placed her free hand onto the small of Nikky’s back. “Nikky, I’m here. It’s okay now.”

  “Okay, all right. All right, okay. Yeah, I’m good.” Nikky scooted back out of the van.

  “Trevon, give me your gun,” she said.

  “What?” Trevon asked.

  “Your gun. Give me your gun. I’m out of bullets.”

  Gus stepped up. “Take this one. Give me yours.”

  “No gun! No gun!” shouted the man still in the van. “I don’t got no gun! Don’t shoot! Please, Jesus, don’t shoot me. I’m Scooter. I’m from around here. You guys all know me. Please don’t shoot,” he begged, hands up as high as he could reach, tears running down his face. He sat on the floor in the corner behind the driver’s seat, eyes glued to Michelle’s gun that steadily threatened his existence.

  Nikky took aim at Scooter. “Get your ass out here.”

  Scooter quickly crabbed out. He sat on the edge of the door with his feet outside the van. His eyes darted around, panic written in everything about him. His eyes darted back and forth between the two women pointing guns at him.

  “You’re talking, little man,” Michelle said. “You’re telling us everything about everything and about everybody. Hold anything back, she’ll take you out like these two here.” She nodded over to the two dead men slouched in the front seats. “This is your only chance; make it work.”

  “Please don’t k‑k‑kill me. No gun. Don’t sh‑shoot me.”

  Trevon laid his hand on Michelle’s arm. “Make it fast. Cops’ll be here in less than a minute.” Then he and Gus stepped off to check the street.

  “Who’s the dead guy in the back?” Michelle asked.

  “That’s Terrance.”

  “And this one?” Michelle pointed at the guy in the front passenger seat.

  “Willie. They work the corner together.”

  Scooter didn’t say which corner. Michelle didn’t care.

  “Why are they with this asshole?” Michelle nodded toward Jerome.

  “They were roofied by them hos that work for Sugar, so they was pissed off. They joined Jerome because he was shot by some women and they all wanted to get even.”

  “What do you mean they were roofied?”

  “You know—roofied. Those hos roofied them so they don’t know what’s going on.”

  Michelle took a deep breath, and slowly let it out. “I know what roofied is, you stupid shit. Who did it?”

  “Dontrice and Blondell, the hos who work over at the park sometimes.”

  Michelle turned to Nikky, raising both eyebrows in question.

  “Yeah, I know who they are,” Nikky said. “They’re on Sugar’s crew. You saw them at Betty’s with Sugar a couple times.”

  “What? They’re on the Pussy Squad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dammit! Dammit to hell and back!” Michelle yelled. “That no good, backstabbing skank bitch. Sugar put them up to this.” She shoved the end of her gun against Scooter’s cheek, hitting his face with each word. “Where the fuck are they?”

  Scooter’s eyes widened even more. “I‑I‑I don’—wait, wait, Blondell has a sister. She lives over at the Aloha Palms apartments. Honest, that’s all I know. I don’t know where they live or where they’re at right now.”

  “We ought to kill this little shit,” Nikky said. “He’d just be another body in this mess.”

  “Maybe. Before we decide, we need to know if he was involved with Jerome.” Michelle held her gun against Scooter’s forehead and jabbed him with it as she spoke. “Did you help these assholes beat up Lil Taye and JJ?”

  “I didn’t hurt those women. I didn’t do nothing to them—honest! I didn’t know what they were doing until it was already done. I was driving, when Jerome said for me to pull over. He and Willie and Terrance jumped out and grabbed ’em. It’s true. I didn’t know who they were or nothing. I couldn’t do anything but drive.”

  “You’re telling me you didn’t touch either of them?” Nikky demanded.

  “God’s truth. I didn’t. I swear!”

  “You didn’t help pull them into the van?”

  “Yes, I did that,” Scooter said, then he held up his hands. “But I didn’t hit nobody. I didn’t hurt them. I didn’t know they would beat them up.”

  “All right, we’ll let him go. If he’s lying, he’s dying.” Michelle turned to Scooter. “If you’re lying, I’ll hunt you down and put a bullet in your eye.”

  “You don’t think he’ll cause problems like Jerome did, do you?” Nikky asked.

  “No, he won’t, because if he says anything around the hood or to the police, he’ll be dead.” Still staring at Scooter, Michelle said, “You clear on that?”

  “I swear to God and everything I love, I won’t say nothing to nobody.”

  “I can get to you like I got to these others, only easier and faster. You’ve already used up all of your chances. Anything from you, and it’s over. You don’t brag about being here. You don’t talk about who lived or who died. You don’t talk to your own mother about anything. If I get the smallest whiff you’ve been talking to anyone—and I mean anyone—about anything, you’re dead. Now you best run away before the police show up.”

  Sirens wailed not too far away.

  Trevon stepped up. “Are those guns registered to you?”

  “No,” both women answered.

  “Both of you, give me your guns now. Go inside. Wash your hands, arms, and face. Even better, take a shower and wash your h
air. Get fresh clothes from Betty. Do it now. Go!” He held his hands out for the guns.

  Michelle saw the blood on Trevon’s hands. “Were you hit?”

  “No, Gus was. It’s not much. No more questions. Give me your guns. Now.”

  “Why? What’re you going to do?” Michelle asked.

  “Just trust me. You were inside and didn’t see anything. You don’t know anything.”

  The sirens were very close. Michelle and Nikky handed over their guns and ran toward Betty’s.

  Twenty‑Two: Police Action

  TREVON FORCED HIMSELF to stop and scan the scene. The street was a mess. Nothing moved. The neighbors were still inside. People would soon pour out of their houses, though, most would wait for the police to show up. When the cruisers, lights flashing, filled the street, it was safe to go outside. Neighbors would check with each other to make sure stray bullets hadn’t claimed an innocent life.

  The dead‑still silence would be crowded with a new chaos.

  Look at it with fresh eyes, like you’ve never been here before. Do it in layers, the way they taught you in forensics class.

  Trevon took inventory of the normal scene. With the exception of the newer townhouse apartments on the left, the lower working class neighborhood of smaller single homes could be in any older residential section of the city. Yards were brown from the hot summer sun, and cheap cars with faded paint lined both sides of the street.

  Next, look at what’s happened.

  To his right, a new, large American car and his Lexis were riddled with bullet holes. An older pickup in front of the Lexus was left untouched. On his right, the parking lane was open from the corner up to a white van about forty feet away. Both the van and a dark sedan parked behind it were full of bullet holes.

  The smell of gunpowder is still strong, but there’s no smoke.

  Three visible bodies—D’andre in the middle of the street; some White guy he’d never seen before in the gutter; and one of D’andre’s guys on the grass, close to where Gus waited. Three more bodies lay in the van, but they couldn’t be seen from where he stood.

  Gus sat on the ground, leaning against the tree. All of their guns, mags out, slides back, lay in a pile at his feet.