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

by Lori Jean Grace

“Are you sure they’re there now?”

  “Pretty sure. Nikky’s friend from work called. She lives a few doors down. Said their skank asses came in a short while ago. She’s been out on the balcony with her kids the whole time and she hasn’t seen anyone leave, so they should still be inside.”

  “Where are you now? How long before you roll up?”

  “About ten minutes.”

  “I’m a little farther away. I’m coming fast as I can.”

  “Michelle, we’re not waiting. The ass whipping starts as soon as we get there.”

  Running three red lights, slow‑rolling through two stop signs, plus doing sixty all the way, Michelle turned a thirty‑minute drive into under fifteen. She screeched to a halt diagonally behind Deja’s car. One front wheel up on the sidewalk, the back of her car still stuck out in the street.

  Michelle sprinted down the walk between a couple of two‑story stucco apartment buildings facing one another. She didn’t need to know the apartment number. The screaming and shouting marked the general location, and the neighbors bunched up across from the front door showed exactly where to go. If that didn’t work, people on the upstairs balcony excitedly pointing at the apartment certainly would.

  Michelle pulled her Glock, shoved through the crowd, and stepped inside.

  Deja held a 9mm over a bony, dark‑skinned woman sitting on the floor. The woman leaned against the wall, legs out flat in front of her. Blood ran from a cut over her eye. Dazed, eyes unfocused, her hair stuck out crazily on one side. Her skirt had bunched up around her waist, showing bright red thong‑style panties.

  Nikky and Dontrice writhed on the floor, both throwing punches.

  Michelle put a hand on Deja’s wrist. She gently pushed Deja’s hand a little to the side, moving the gun enough so Deja would miss in case she accidentally pulled the trigger. With her other hand, Michelle fired one shot into the corner couch.

  BLAM!

  Like two cats with springs in their feet, Nikky and Dontrice jumped up and back, then froze. The hate boiling off of Nikky was matched by the hate coming from Dontrice. With pit bull intensity, both women focused on each other.

  At the shot, Blondell bounced back against the wall. Her eyes popped wide, darting left, then right, and her hands jerked up like catching an imaginary ball. She froze with surprise at not being shot written on everything about her.

  “Deja, keep that gun on this bitch,” Michelle said. “If she tries to get up, shoot her in the gut.”

  “Glad to.” Deja aimed at Blondell.

  Michelle waved her 9mm at Dontrice. “Move over against the wall. Stay on your feet.”

  She side‑stepped over to Nikky. “Nikky, yo! Nikky! You able to hold my gun without shooting her?”

  After a short pause, Nikky took in a deep breath, then blew it out. “Yeah.”

  “Good. Come over here and take this. I’m going out to calm things down. You’re sure you won’t kill her?”

  “I can wait. So long as this bitch doesn’t move, or even twitch.”

  Outside, Michelle didn’t need to yell because it became abruptly quiet when she stepped through the door. “I shot the couch. That’s all. But we aren’t finished here; some talking still needs to be done. What’s said is between those women and us; it’s nobody else’s business.”

  Michelle pointed at a large woman with orange hair. “Go check inside, and tell everyone out here what you see.”

  The woman tipped over, peeked through the doorway.

  “Well?”

  “Their asses been kicked, but nobody’s shot,” she told the crowd.

  “Who’s in there?” someone yelled.

  “Four women I don’t know. They don’t live here.”

  “Now, I’m going back inside to conduct a civilized conversation,” Michelle said. “The fighting is over. Anybody have a problem with that?”

  Several people shook their heads. No one said anything.

  “I don’t need the police here, and I suggest you don’t call them.”

  Again, heads shook. And a few people muttered, “Fuck the po‑po. They cause more trouble than they ever fix. We don’t need them around here.”

  Michelle stepped back into the small, dimly lit living room where the pungent smell of sweat and gunpowder competed with old fried food and years of cigarette smoke. She kicked the door shut behind her, strode straight over to Dontrice, and slammed her fist into the woman’s face. The blow broke Dontrice’s nose and knocked her down.

  “Nikky, are you good?” Michelle asked.

  “Yeah, I’m good.”

  “On your feet, bitch,” Michelle said to Dontrice.

  Dontrice didn’t move. Stepping to the side so Nikky had a clear shot, Michelle grabbed Dontrice by the hair. She yanked up hard enough to convince her to stand, then—bam!—Michelle slammed her fist into Dontrice’s face again. The hapless woman hit the floor once more, spitting out a tooth.

  Michelle squatted down beside Dontrice. She pulled her hair back, forcing her to look up into Michelle’s eyes. With Dontrice’s full attention, she said, “Now you listen to me. I don’t roll like most women. I’ll beat you until I get what I need. If necessary, I’ll kill you in front of your friend. Then, I’ll do to her whatever it takes to make her talk.”

  Dontrice’s eyes darted around the room—fear replaced the hate.

  “Do you believe me, bitch?” Michelle demanded, still holding on to Dontrice’s hair and glaring into her eyes.

  “Yes,” Dontrice said.

  “I’m going to ask you about Sugar. I strongly suggest you think carefully about what you say. Tell the truth, you’ll live. Try lying, you’ll die today. Now, where’s Sugar?”

  Dontrice looked across the room at Blondell, who nodded.

  “Sugar told us to tell you she went to stay with her family in Georgia,” Dontrice said.

  “But she didn’t go to Georgia, did she?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I never heard about any family in Georgia. She has a sister she visits sometimes, up in Oakland. My guess is she there.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Sherry, I think.”

  “What’s she do?”

  “I don’t know. Honest, I swear I don’t know.”

  Michelle glared at her while thinking through the next steps.

  Tears ran down Dontrice’s face, mixing with blood from her broken nose. “I’ve told you the truth—honest! Please don’t kill me.”

  “You’ll live, now shut up.” Michelle turned to Nikky, and then to Deja. “Satisfied?”

  “Yeah, it sounds like she’s telling the truth,” Deja said.

  “Doesn’t make up for Taye,” Nikky added.

  “I agree.” Nikky nodded. “We can’t let that slide, and a small ass whipping doesn’t settle it.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Michelle said. “They were stupid to do what they did, but they don’t deserve to die for it, either. You good with kicking their asses out of the hood, permanent?” she asked Nikky.

  “Goddammit, Michelle, why are you so reasonable?” Nikky shook her head and, pursing her lips lowered her gun. “If I ever see either one of you back here, you’re dead,” she said to Dontrice and Blondell. “My baby sister’s in a coma because of what you did.”

  “We’re so sorry for what happened,” Blondell said. “We didn’t know they was—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Nikky screamed pointing her gun at Blondell. “I’ll fucking kill you if I ever see you again.” Then Nikky stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

  “Clean up enough to travel,” Michelle told both women.

  Deja kept them separated while each woman washed the blood from her face and donned a fresh blouse.

  Michelle called G‑Baby. “Uncle G, I need some help with fixing up a couple of women. They walked into a door with their faces.”

  “How bad?” he asked.

  “Nothing serious. Some stitches an
d a tooth put back in. One has a busted nose.”

  “Since you’re calling me, I guess you want to do this down in Little Saigon.”

  G‑Baby had been friends with Tuan Nguyen, a Vietnamese man, since they were toddlers in diapers, a family relationship started by Michelle’s grandfather and Tuan’s dad back during the Vietnam War. Over the years, the families stayed in touch and often helped each other with a number of legal and not‑so‑legal business efforts.

  Michelle owed Tuan for a few, past iron‑clad alibis. Some day he, or someone in his family, would need help, and Michelle would be there, no questions asked—no matter what.

  “It’s better if everything’s off the record, or at least not the normal places people will look. These two either get out of Anglewatts, or they’ll be dead.”

  “Is this mixed up with what went down over on Miss Betty’s street last week?” G‑Baby asked.

  “Yeah. They were on the wrong side, and it could be bad for them.”

  Straddling the threshold of the open front door, with one foot out on the porch and one foot in the room, Michelle leaned back against the door frame. She could see inside the living room and down the center walk between the apartments to the street. Outside, no one was in sight; the excitement was over. Nobody had been shot and the fighting had ended. Apparently, the neighbors’ indoor activities with their air conditioning were more interesting than taking the chance of pissing off women with guns.

  With her 9mm in her lap, Deja watched from across the room as Dontrice and Blondell huddled together on the couch, damp, ice‑filled hand towels held to their faces. Two small, carry‑on suitcases waited by the front door where more heat than light came in.

  “This is what’s gonna happen,” Michelle said to the two women. “A man will pick you up to take your sorry asses down to Orange County. He’ll take you to a clinic to patch up your faces, and the doc will also fix that tooth you have in your pocket. Afterwards, a Vietnamese family will put you up overnight.” Michelle paused, leaned forward. “You’ll respect them like they’re your momma’s minister and his wife.” She leaned back. “You got that? That last part about respecting them?”

  Both women nodded.

  “In the morning, you’re on a plane to Detroit.”

  “You took our phones,” Blondell said. “How can we tell people where we’re going?”

  “Call them when you land. You’re not talking to anybody from now until you’re in Detroit.”

  “Are you keeping us locked up?” she asked.

  Dontrice, wide‑eyed, whipped her head around toward her friend and hissed, “Shut up! These bitches don’t play.”

  Michelle ignored Dontrice to answer Blondell. “No, the doors won’t be locked. You can walk away if you want to. No one will try to stop you.”

  Blondell narrowed her eyes. “I don’t believe you. What happens if we leave?”

  “Same thing that’ll happen if you ever come back to L.A. I’ll get a call and you’ll die,” Michelle said. “No torture, no pain—a quick, clean bullet in your brain. I’ll look you in the eye when I pull the trigger. I’ll hate it, but I will kill you. That, or Nikky will get you, which won’t be pretty.”

  Dontrice and Blondell exchanged glances, then turned back to Michelle.

  “Are you saying we need to stay in Detroit?” Blondell asked. “I got family in Birmingham. What about Birmingham?”

  “Birmingham, Detroit. I don’t give a rat’s ass where you go, as long as you’re gone. This is a one‑time offer. You can go, visit the doc, and take a one‑way trip in the morning, or you can be dead by tomorrow night. Personally, I prefer you act smart and get gone, but the choice is yours.”

  Both women nodded.

  Twenty‑Six: Sugar’s Gone

  MICHELLE PUSHED DEEPER into the shadows. She stood behind Sherry and Marshall’s detached garage in Oakland. Loud in her own ears, she was certain her voice could not be heard inside the house as she called Scott’s Diner on her cell. Through the magic of digital manipulation, her call was re‑routed. Phone records would show the call coming from the tower close to her cottage. Step one to creating her digital fingerprint as being in L.A.—done.

  “Hey, Scott, this is Michelle.”

  “Morning, Michelle. What’s up?”

  “I’d like two regular take‑out breakfasts. No coffee. I already made a pot. Do you remember Deja, my good friend?”

  “The tall, gorgeous woman with the knock‑out figure? The one who’s super‑hot no matter what she wears? The one with the huge smile and bubbly personality? No, can’t say I remember anything about her.” Scott chuckled, scoffing. “Like every man who has ever seen her, of course I remember Deja.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t remember too much, or you’ll be living in your imagination.”

  “I’d better not go there! That’s a dangerous path to go down. So, what about Deja?”

  “She’ll be down in a few minutes with my card. We have a thing on who pays, so please don’t let her use her own card or try something sneaky with cash.”

  Michelle envisioned the next two steps in building her digital fingerprint: Deja would go into Scott’s and use Michelle’s card to buy breakfast. It wouldn’t hold up in court, but the record was meant to lead the police to where she wanted them to go, not to convince the courts.

  The step after that had Nikky in a short Afro wig, dark aviator sunglasses, and bright red lipstick so she’d reasonably be mistaken for Michelle. Nikky would drive herself and Deja in Michelle’s convertible Crossfire, with the top down, through the drive‑through window of El Pollo Loco in Santa Monica, close to Michelle’s cottage.

  They planned to talk loudly enough for the kid at the window to hear Michelle’s name, as Deja asked if she really did screw some poor woman’s husband at the church on their wedding day.

  Nikky and Deja had to rehearse it at least seven times in order to stop laughing when they got to the “At the church!” punch line where Nikky replied, “Yes, but I fucked him before the ceremony, so he wasn’t married yet.” That bit of drama would complete the third digital fingerprint and would include an innocent eye‑witness.

  Waiting in the shadows through the early morning hours, Michelle silently chuckled at how much fun Deja and Nikky had in rehearsing their parts. But although thinking about her friends felt good, it was time to lay those thoughts aside to focus on the task at hand, here in Oakland. The time had come for her deal with Sugar.

  The sprong of the long spring stretching across the old‑style wooden screen door reached Michelle first, followed by the soft thunk of the door closing and then the light slap of the screen door, released slightly, before it closed and bounced off the wooden frame.

  Marshall. A moment later, Marshall’s car backed out of the driveway.

  Sherry had left about twenty minutes earlier.

  Sugar’s alone. Time to move.

  With minimum movement, Michelle glanced at her watch: 6:42 a.m. Hidden in the shadow of the shrubs, she was virtually invisible as the pre‑dawn darkness faded into light. Having been in the same spot since 4:09 that morning, she welcomed Marshall’s leaving.

  Prepared to pick the deadbolt, Michelle found the back door unlocked.

  Wouldn’t make much difference. Still, this is quieter. I’ll take it.

  Michelle entered the elevated, enclosed back porch that ran half the width of the old, wood‑frame house. The house she grew up in had a similar porch that, with its many stored items, had been a favorite place for hide and seek. This porch, however, had been upgraded into some kind of a hobby room with glass windows. Across the room from the porch door, she saw the familiar old‑style, original back door. Propped open, it led into the kitchen.

  In eerie silence, Michelle stepped into the kitchen where Sugar sat at one end of a six‑place, butcher‑block‑style table with a mug of coffee. Her eyes widened when she saw Michelle standing in front of her.

  No hesitation, n
o conversation—only action.

  Michelle moved with the speed of a striking cobra, landing two shots into the table—Puhffiitt! Puhffiitt!—where two holes exploded in the polished wood surface, one to each side of Sugar. Before she had time to react, Michelle’s gun pointed at her face.

  Sugar froze.

  “You’re fucked,” Michelle said. “Do exactly what I say, and you might live. Nod your head if you understand.”

  Sugar silently nodded.

  “Put both hands on the table, palms up. Stretch out as far as you can reach.”

  Sugar moved slowly, carefully, doing what she was told.

  “Keep your ass in that chair and eyes on me. Push your feet out, wide apart, so they’re sitting on their heels.”

  This awkward position guaranteed security against any dangerous movements. But personal safety wasn’t the issue; before Sugar could clear her chair, Michelle could get five or six shots off. One would be enough. Forcing Sugar into the stretched‑out position was more psychological than physical. It sent a loud, strong message that Sugar was totally at Michelle’s mercy.

  “You saw D’andre was dead back at Betty’s?” Michelle asked.

  Sugar nodded.

  “That piece of shit, rat bastard Jerome’s dead, too.”

  Sugar nodded.

  “You knew they were dead, right?”

  Again, Sugar nodded.

  “Those two you set up, Willie and Terrance, they’re also dead, and it’s on you. You killed them, same as if you’d pulled the trigger.”

  Sugar shrugged.

  “Their being dead might not matter too much to you, but their families will be real pissed if they learned how you caused their deaths.”

  Realization crossed Sugar’s face. If they knew the truth, a lot of people would want her dead.

  “Lil Taye’s still in a coma and might never come back. You fucking bitch! You did that! You stupid, stupid cunt. You sent those guys to jack her.”

  “No, I didn’t mean—”

  “Shut up before I put a bullet in your head. I’m so goddamned mad at you, I want to kill you right the fuck now. I can’t ever remember being this mad and so close to losing it.”

  This was different from when Michael was killed. For a long time, she didn’t know who’d done it. With no face or a name to focus on, she had time to calm down and organize her emotions and thoughts. This, however, was immediate and had pushed her well past the threshold of furious. Michelle found even continuing to talk extremely difficult.