Hard Betrayal (Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Series 2)

by Jason Stanley

  * * *

  A fan for the classics, Bad to The Bone, the ringtone for Michelle’s personal calls, played on her phone. She kept everyone separated by ringtones — personal and work. Each of Michelle’s work connections had a unique ringtone: one for her local cover job, one for her connections for assassin jobs. Each ringtone meant something dramatically different. This tone was strictly personal. Michelle turned down the car stereo and answered her cell.

  “Sup?”

  “Hey, pretty lady, this is Trevon. You have a minute to chat?”

  Chat? Who asks if you have a minute to chat?

  “Hey, Trevon. Well, aren’t you polite with your lawyer-speak, asking me if I can chat. For a polite lawyer-man like you, I’m sure I can find a moment.” Michelle enjoyed teasing him about being so proper.

  I’ll teach him to ask if I can “chat.”

  “In fact, right now,” she added, “I have a lot of moments to chat. I made the mistake of getting on the freeway, and traffic’s jammed up for miles. Me and a million other people — we’re all free to talk, chat, for as long as you or anyone wants. How’s that for chatty? So, what’s up?”

  “You think you’re cute, huh?” he asked.

  “I know I am — so do you.”

  “I’m coming up your way this afternoon. How about we break off some time for a little quality togetherness?”

  At the thought of a little quality togetherness with Trevon, she did a few Kegel crunches. “How much time are you talking about?”

  “I’m thinking Scott’s for breakfast tomorrow morning sounds pretty good.”

  “Now you’re speaking my language. Of course, eating at Scott’s means finding a place close by to spend the night. Any ideas?”

  “Yes. It’s an excellent place to enjoy takeout from Scott’s and it comes complete with the finest shorty in the city.”

  “Shorty? You’re calling me a shorty?”

  “Yeah, well, I thought I’d speak your language. Besides, calling you a ‘sweet young lass’ is likely to bring me a whole lot of grief.”

  “You call me a sweet young lass, I might puke. More to the point, what do you think you’re up to doing with this shorty, Mr. Lawyer-man?”

  “I’m thinking it’s a good thing neither of us needs much sleep, since proving yourself will probably take most of the night,” he teased. “I’m not totally convinced yet. You still need to prove you’re as good as you think you are.”

  “I don’t need to prove anything that hasn’t already been proven in a spectacular way. You’re the one who should be worried about proving something.”

  From previous experience she knew, both of them were as good as they said they were — even better. More than amazing sex, something else was going on. Trevon touched her soul. Did it feel this way because, for the first time ever, she allowed herself to go there, or was Trevon really and truly special?

  At the very least, things with him were fun, and she needed that.

  But, Michelle suspected his story consisted of more than just a young lawyer with a nose for business; he had more money than seemed reasonable, even for a successful lawyer. Clearly, he had a lot of street smarts and anyone who paid attention could tell something else lay just below the surface. Trevon had a streak of quiet, understated yet ruthless. Strength. The same type she recognized in herself. This strength, as much as anything else, drew her to him. He was much more than he let other people see. She liked that about him.

  Traffic cleared, and Michelle began to move. “So far, you haven’t failed to meet expectations, but there’s always a first time. Are you up for the test?”

  “I recently read how a man’s performance is greatly influenced by the woman he’s with. So how about you? Will your influence be adequate to entice my best?”

  “Are you sure you’re a brother?” she asked, laughing. “You talk funny. Don’t you worry about my influence or my performance. You get yourself over to my place this afternoon and we’ll see about performance. Right now, I’m headed to the gym for a match. I have an appointment in the Muay Thai ring to kick a tough Korean woman’s butt. You want to come watch?”

  “How long will you be at the gym?”

  “Two maybe three hours.”

  “Sounds good. I’m taking care of some business at the courthouse and I should be finished up in about an hour. After that, I’m free. Are you at Rock Hard Gym?”

  “Yup.”

  “What makes you so sure you can kick this poor little woman’s butt? I hear some of those Asian chicks can be deadly.”

  “You just bring your fancy-pants lawyer self over to the gym and check it out. And remember, your invitation is open and waiting. Any time you’re up to getting your butt kicked in the ring, I’ll be happy to oblige.”

  Trevon laughed. “No thanks. Your kicking my ass isn’t my idea of foreplay. Not to mention, the people I’d have to shoot after the video went viral. I think it’s best to do what I do best and wait for tonight to get things up.”

  “Here’s a lawyer term for you,” she said. “Past is prologue. It means: ‘what once was, will be again,’ or something like that. I think you’re good for it. You did good before, so you ought to be able to make the grade this time. So, no, I guess you don’t need to worry. Just don’t go getting complacent or lazy. Turn into a lousy lover, and the past will go from prologue to ancient history.” Hanging up she took the next exit off the freeway.

  Relieved to get off the freeway, Michelle drove to the Hard Rock gym, parked, cut off the radio but left the motor and air-conditioning running.

  She’d sparred with this woman several times, enough to begin missing details that might count. Michelle pushed back the seat and, with her hands in her lap, head against the headrest, and her eyes closed, she went through a progressive muscle relaxation and deep breathing exercise. She opened her eyes to examine the details of her surroundings as a way of putting the familiar into the perspective of the unfamiliar.

  Michelle spotted some crumbs that had dropped onto the shifter in the center console and smudges on the dash of her beloved Pearl, a silver Chrysler Crossfire convertible. That’s no way to treat a lady. First thing in the morning, I’ll take you in for a deluxe wash, wax, and detail.

  Of all the gyms in L.A., she enjoyed Rock Hard the most. With high spirits, Michelle grabbed her gym bag out of the trunk and headed into her home away from home. She loved working out, training, and combat matches almost as much as she loved good sex. Today promised to be a perfect day and, if possible, an even better night.

  Inside the sparing match proved the perfect workout. Michelle pulled her punches just enough to not hurt the woman and still hone her own skills. It was enough to keep her in shape for the serious match with a Thai national her sensei had been talking about.

  .

  Eight: Surprise Attack

  WITH A CLEAR VIEW in all directions, BamBam met his crew in the center of the park where it joined up with an empty lot. Up until four years ago, the park had been an active, if not particularly well-maintained, neighborhood outdoor gathering spot of mothers with toddlers and young children. That changed when the lieutenant, Lewis, set up his drug business operations there.

  The moms and young children had permanently left. On the back end of the park, a single basketball court held out as the only active remnant. The pounding of a basketball on cement and clatter of it hitting the backboard from the six preteen boys playing half-court hoops drifted over to where BamBam’s crew met.

  BamBam sat in a lone, green plastic lawn chair while others stood or squatted in a semi-circle around him. “Hey, Flaco, you seen Willie and Terrance?” he asked.

  “Naw, haven’t seen them,” Flaco answered.

  “Fuck! I’m gonna jack their asses for leaving their corner open like this. Jimmy — you and Flaco take their spot.”

  “What about my regular customers?” Jimmy asked.

  “Kojo — you and Marcus cover for Jimmy today,” BamBam said. “Damn. Willie�
�s gonna pay for this shit.”

  BamBam hung out with the guys on the leftover cement floor of a demolished apartment building. Between them and the street, the partial skeletons of the swings, a slide, and a merry-go-round quietly decayed. The dead equipment served as dysfunctional reminders of the defunct playground. Several half-buried big-truck tires, looking like arches or perhaps the back of an industrial serpent swimming in the weeds, stood between the rusted hulks and the morning meeting.

  Marcus shaded his eyes with his hand. “Hey” —he pointed up the street— “isn’t that D’andre and Levon?”

  “Man, I don’t like the look of this,” Flaco said.

  “We got big meet happening?” Jimmy gripped the butt of his 9mm.

  A dark green Explorer and a black Chrysler 300 pulled up, stopped, and D’andre and six others climbed out.

  BamBam did a mental inventory: Darius and Cheese were already at their corner, working. He had six guys, plus himself. Flaco, Kojo, and Jimmy were strapped and showing their guns. Marcus and Pooky were only runners; they never carried heat. That left Willie’s cousin, Ty, from back East. New in the hood and unproven.

  Christ. Four guns. They have seven.

  Ty pulled out a 9mm, upping the odds to five to seven.

  Without a word, everybody jumped for cover before the first shot rang out. Then, as if God had reached down and hit the “on” switch, twelve guns started shooting at the same moment in an explosion of violence.

  BLAM!-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM! BLAM!-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM! BLAM!

  The boys playing hoops scattered before the ball landed on the second bounce.

  “Fuck!” BamBam scrambled away, half-falling, half-diving behind a partially buried truck tire. The rubber serpent’s back wasn’t much cover.

  Everyone knew BamBam was deadly with a gun. A volley of bullets zeroed in on him. One hit; the bullet shattered BamBam’s shinbone.

  Pooky screamed, “I don’t got no gun! I don’t got no gun! I can’t stay here. I’ll be killed.”

  “Shut up, Pooky!” Jimmy yelled. “Stay down.”

  “I’ll die here.” Pooky took off running across the play area. Six shooters responded. Six guns.

  BLAM!-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM! BLAM! BLAM!

  Eighteen, nineteen, twenty bullets with deadly intent sought to kill him.

  One slug hit his leg, spinning Pooky to face the men shooting at him. A second hit him in the gut and he folded over as if giving an awkward bow to the man who’d shot him. The last bullet went through the top of his head. He died on the way to the ground.

  Pooky’s slaughter pulled everyone’s attention. They watched as he crumpled and died.

  While they hesitated, Flaco shot one of D’andre’s men in the chest —BLAM!— and jumped for better cover.

  At the sound of Flaco’s gun, everyone snapped back from the grisly scene with Pooky.

  One of D’andre’s men was a fraction of a second faster than the others. He fired a reaction shot at Flaco’s movement —BLAM!

  Gut-shot, Flaco went down. Mostly hidden, his legs still stuck out and a dozen or more shots slammed into the dirt around his feet.

  BamBam loaded his only extra magazine and yelled, “Shoot these muthafuckas! Make every shot count.”

  The gun battle was not yet a minute old.

  Slot-B and Darnell, two of D’andre’s men, crouched together in a bad position with little cover.

  BamBam saw Slot-B and Darnell run off in different directions. Slot-B headed toward a short, cement wall.

  “Fuck, he’ll have a clear shot at Kojo,” BamBam said to himself and swung to shoot at Slot-B.

  BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

  “Muthafucka, you’re mine,” Robert yelled as he rose to shoot at BamBam.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! Ty repeatedly pulled the trigger in time with his words.

  BamBam had recently brought the kid into his crew on Willie’s word that Ty could hold his own in a fight. Today, Ty showed both his courage and his fear. One of the shots hit Robert in the neck, killing him, then Ty ducked back down and froze. He didn’t shoot again.

  Sirens wailed in the distance.

  BLAM! BLAM!

  BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

  When Robert fell, Zion ran over to him and BamBam shot his last two rounds at Zion —BLAM! BLAM!

  Jimmy fired four or five times at Zion.

  More sirens approached from the opposite direction.

  Only Jimmy was still shooting. It was enough to keep D’andre’s crew behind cover until the first police cars came screaming up.

  Almost enough.

  The slide on BamBam’s 9mm locked back — empty. “Marcos! I’m outta ammo. Throw me a clip,” he yelled.

  “I’m out, too!” Marcos yelled back.

  “Bam’s out of ammo! Everybody take him out!” D’andre shouted, pointing at BamBam over behind the tires, and his crew all shot at BamBam.

  BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

  BLAM! BLAM!

  BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

  Shots upon shots flew, but none hit their mark.

  BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

  Marcos jumped up and ran for the corner of the closest building. All of D’andre’s men except D’andre shot at him—

  BLAM!-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM! BLAM!-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM! BLAM!

  —Marcos ran faster than any pro at a track meet. No one hit him.

  The sirens’ wail grew louder.

  D’andre ran in the opposite direction from Marcos.

  The first police cars poured in down the same street Marcos had fled. A moment later, cruisers intruded from several other directions. They all missed D’andre.

  For a second, the battlefield froze. No one seemed to breathe amid the chirp-chirp of sirens shutting down. Then, a new chaos erupted as the heavily armed police broke the stillness.

  BamBam’s awareness widened and he gradually focused on his men around him. Pooky lay crumpled in a heap, dead. Robert didn’t move, and BamBam guessed he was also dead. Several men groaned while the pain in his own leg flared in stunning brilliance.

  “I’ll get you D’andre. You hear me? I’ll kill you!” BamBam shouted.

  No one answered.

  The wail of different-sounding sirens announced that the first ambulances were on the way.

  * * *

  Darius’ casual lean against the wall spoke of his familiarity with the scene. Cheese stood a few feet away by the curb, taking in the sights and the feel of the day. Business as usual — until the sound of shots drifted to the corner.

  “What do you think?” Cheese asked.

  “Don’t know,” Darius replied. “Can’t tell where it is. It’s big, though. That’s a war, not no drive-by.”

  Tricked-out with rims, blacked out windows and bumping sounds, a black Toyota Camry rolled up the street. Slow like a customer; but not quite.

  Darius had seen the car around, but not on his corner and it was too tricked-out to belong to citizen. The bass sounded too good to be a fake-ass lop. A couple of homies sat in the front. These guys were in the life. What were they doing here?

  “Yo, dog! Hold back,” Darius called to Cheese. “Something’s not right.”

  Standing at the curb, ready to handle customers, Cheese looked up. With a lifetime of reflexes built on the streets, he stepped back, catching eyes with the guy riding shotgun. It was Ghost from D’andre’s crew — Snake drove. Between the two, Ghost was the known killer.

  Darius reached for his gun in his shoulder rig.

  “Gun!” yelled Cheese. He dropped back on his butt, pulling a 9mm from his waistband.

  BLAM!

  A bullet whizzed by, taking a piece of his ear.

  Cheese fired at the car as it rolled by —BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!— shots exploding until his empty gun’s slide locked open.

  As fast as Cheese was, Darius was faster. He emptied his magazine into the car —BLAM BLAM! BLAM BLAM! BLAM BLAM!

/>   The Camry picked up speed and almost immediately careened off of a parked car. Swerving out of control, and across the road, it sideswiped another car on the left then accelerated to slam head-on into yet another parked car. The force of the last collision threw the back end of the Camry around. Now a complete wreck, the car hissed and smoldered like a giant, pissed off Transformer had dropped it sideways into the middle of the street.

  The passenger door creaked open. Ghost half-fell, half-climbed out. Shot but mobile, he took off running. Snake slumped over the steering wheel.

  Cheese jumped up, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Take that, muthafucka! Jacked yo’ asses! Jacked yo’ asses good!” He turned, shouting to Darius, “Did you see that! We jac—”

  Darius sat on the sidewalk, slouched against the wall, a wide streak of blood running down behind him.

  Cheese’s eyes widened. “You’re shot? No, you can’t be shot. I’ll kill those muthafuckas.”

  Darius caught his stare, nodded, and leaned back. He’d taken two hits: one in the shoulder, the other in the leg. “Get them,” was all he said.

  Cheese dug into Darius’ coat pocket for the extra clip he always carried, slammed it home, and started up the street. Ghost disappeared around the corner at a dead run, but Snake was still in the car.

  Darius’ vision narrowed as he watched his friend stride down the street in a straight line toward the smashed car. Snake’s head slowly rolled, but he didn’t look up.

  About fifty feet from the car, Cheese started firing —BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

  With each step closer —BLAM!— he shot at Snake —BLAM!— still in the driver’s seat —BLAM!

  He stormed right up to the open window —BLAM! One or more of his shots had capped Snake; the man was obviously dead.

  Cheese fired his last bullets into Snake’s body —BLAM! BLAM! “Take that! You piece o’ shit!”

  The wail of sirens grew close.

  .

  Nine: Collateral Damage

  “DOWN! EVERYBODY DOWN!” When the shots started outside, G-Baby dropped to the floor.

  It had been a long time since Michelle’s uncle, G-Baby, had been involved with gangs or shooting. The length of time didn’t matter, it was something he’d never forget.