by Brick
An older boy laid out that a tall man had taken him. Another said his captor was blond. Other kids mentioned that they’d been kidnapped by someone with blue eyes. All of them said the people spoke weird, and many said they were forced to stash drugs on their bodies. They all woke up after being drugged and found themselves hidden in the truck. The loud sobs of some of the girls chilled me to the bone. The older boys made their way over to them and tried to shield them.
I pushed up to turn my back on them and look at my team. “The Scandinavians . . . and Mouse! Motherfuckers turned their back on me and flipped the script.”
Oya and Shredder both hopped into the back of the truck with me. They both glanced at each other for a moment, then went to help the kids. Oya knew French as well as Portuguese, so she was able to communicate effectively with the children.
“We are here to protect you. Their blood will spill for bringing harm to you, I promise,” I heard Oya gently say as I climbed out of the truck.
The pain in her voice, I knew well. This all hit home with her, as she had been snatched from her home in Brazil and was also a survivor of human trafficking. Chills ran down my spine.
“We’ll gather what we can from the truck, scrub it out with my kit in the trunk, and try to get these kids back to their homes,” I muttered while walking toward Smiley.
Smiley’s eyes were rimmed in red as she watched the others. I didn’t know if she was really telling the truth about her people not being involved, but I knew I was pissed off at the thought of being played.
“Was there a tracker to set us up?” I asked Shredder, who had jumped down from the truck and followed me.
“Yes, boss. I left that shit on the side of the road once I left the weigh station and took a U-turn in Daytona,” Shredder explained, quickly moving to my side.
“Good call. That gives us a little more time here.” Thinking of what to do from here, I paused next to Shango and stared at my guest.
“So, Smiley.” My hand rested on the small of her back while I worked to remove her cuffs. “Today we both have an understanding. Your team’s things will be returned. My point was made, but with the wrong people. I’m a man with mine, so I’ll speak—”
As soon as I said that, cars zoomed up, and a door flew open. All I saw was a long braid, shapely, exotic eyes, and a lithe female’s body. Behind her, from the second car, was a male. I frowned. I didn’t have time for this shit. The Scandinavians were gunning for me, fucking with my livelihood, and I needed to understand why before I pumped iron into their skulls and blew smoke through the openings.
Moving Smiley behind me, I stared down little Miss Latina, whom I recognized from the convenience store. Something about the power in the way she moved had me wanting to give her mad respect and to fuck her. But at the same time, I was ready for whatever fight she wanted to throw.
“You said it was my move, so here we go.” Her gun lifted; then she rolled her shoulders. “Give me back my homie.”
An amused smile spread across my face, and instantly, I wanted to mind fuck the shawty. “Who? You don’t even know this girl to be calling her homie.”
Little Miss Latina gave me a snarl that reminded me of the many pics online of my Caribbean sistas with the red lipstick giving me heat. The sound of her gun going off near my feet had me slightly annoyed. I moved to the side, and I saw Oya move the kids farther back, then hop down from the truck and come my way.
“You want gunfire, we can do that, Mami. But you need to listen to what I have to share with you in this moment in time,” I spat out, locking my steely gaze on her from under my cap.
Smiley tried to push from behind me, but I kept her in place and growled low, “You move and don’t let me handle this, then you’ll get hurt, you understand me?”
“I don’t care. You know we didn’t—” she began, but I interrupted her.
“Yes, I know. Let me communicate that shit.” Agitation rode me. Females could do the utmost sometimes. I was trying to show my hand in respect, but here we went with the bullshit.
I turned my attention back to the woman with the guns. “I know you’re pissed, and I extend my apology, but listen. I have more guns on you than you have on me. If I wanted you dead, I could do so. As for my death, I don’t really give a shit. But if I go down, so does your homie. So put the gun down.”
A cold smile spread across her face. She gave a fake laugh, then laid the gun down. “Okay, truce.”
I wasn’t feeling how easily she laid her weapon down. Something in her mannerisms, as well as those of her boys, had me on edge and told me to keep my distance.
“It seems we have a common enemy. You got played, and I got played. Whoever the puppet master is, he or she wanted us to go out and wipe each other out. Now, both of us so far have been operating on smarts in this whole thing, and I want to keep it that way. Do you hear me?”
My gaze stayed on the chick. She pushed her hair to the side, then gave a shrug. “Yeah. Now do you hear me?” With a snap of her hand, two other people came out of the cars, holding guns. “Now we are equal with the gunplay. . . . Dios, wait . . .” She pulled a gun out of her jacket, then pointed it my way.
I sighed. The broad was clearly crazy as fuck. Here I was, offering an olive branch, and here she was, playing G.I. Joe.
The irritation was too much for me, so I let Smiley go and tilted my head. “Tell your friend to chill. I want peace. We might be able to help each other, okay?”
Smiley glanced up at me; then she looked at the kids in the truck’s trailer. I could tell the wheels in her mind were turning, because she then gave a frown and gruffly said, “Fine. But for them.”
As she pushed Shango back and brushed past me, she rolled her eyes. She jogged to her friend and held her hands up. “He’s talking truth, Code. He’s been played. Look in the truck.”
Smiley motioned behind her, and the kids peeked their heads out to look around. Little Miss Latina’s eyes widened; then she slowly dropped her weapon.
My team and I stayed still and watched, keeping our distance. I realized that one of the men behind the woman I had learned was named Code had been my client’s bodyguard. Oya stepped forward, and so did Shango, both of my guards revealing the heat in their hands. I could see the recognition in their eyes, and I knew I wasn’t tripping then.
Something like an irrational anger hit me. I signaled my people, and our guns pointed straight ahead. Someone had a fucking secret, because some foul shit was going on here. I didn’t know completely what it was. But fuck this shit. If I was going to die today, then so be it.
Chapter 12
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Time was on my side. At least that was what the song I was humming told me as I calmly scaled the side of a house in East Atlanta. Too much had happened for me to ignore everything, and with the taking of Smiley, I was no longer going to sit back and be on defense. I tried as hard as I could not to tap back into that mentality of surviving by any means necessary. I figured, if I stayed off the drugs and the guns side of things, me and my family could do our due diligence without having to worry about retaliation from gangs, cartels, and other bullshit that came along with the gun and drug trade.
Stealing credit card information, cars, a little money here and there; wiping out bad credit history; wiping out identities wouldn’t put my family in peril. I never wanted to lose another member of my family to the streets. Had, by happenstance, lost a friend of mine to a street king by the name of Damien Orlando. Kitty, our resident credit-card skimmer, had been killed in a drive-by that had nothing to do with her. And now Smiley was missing. Yet again, for something that had nothing to do with her.
I tried hard—only the gods knew how hard I tried—not to go into that place where I saw the hood as the jungle it was. But since motherfuckers wanted to test me and thought they could just come in my house, stick their hands in my refrigerator without asking, just straight disrespect me and mine, I had to become a predator. And at this point, that was fine by me.
The fact that the Vikings were posted up in Southeast Atlanta, in the Lakewood area, told me they had some serious backing. No way could their pale faces, blond hair, and blue eyes survive in an area ranked number nine on the list of worst neighborhoods in America unless word had been put out that they were not to be touched. Good thing I didn’t give a fuck about that, though.
I adjusted the backpack I had on my back and hopped down from the wall. Signaled to Lelo and Stitch, who were casually sitting in a delivery car nearby, that I spotted six men in the house. Two were watching SportsCenter in the messy living room. Two were in the kitchen, taking shots from the big bottle of tequila sitting on the old, worn round table. One had made his way to the bathroom, and another was posted up by a window, with a MAC-11 on his lap.
Reagan sashayed down the street in six-inch stilettos. Her hair fell down her back in twelve neatly done cornrows. Lip gloss called attention to her lips. The earrings she had on looked as if they were covering the whole lobes—they was really her earpiece so she could communicate what was going on without having to say much. Her beautiful brown skin glowed in the sun. It was rare that we got to see Reagan in something that showcased her femininity, so the ass-short skirt and the black mesh halter top showing off her thirty-six Ds gave me pause for a minute. Hell, they even gave Lelo and Stitch pause. While they may have been a couple, they weren’t blind. And since they both shared the same baby mama, they weren’t ignorant to the wiles of a woman, either.
“Damn,” Lelo remarked.
We all had on earpieces and could easily hear what the others were saying and doing.
“When Reagan get all that ass and those tits?” Stitch wanted to know.
I chuckled. Couldn’t lie and say that her ass and thighs weren’t working everything male in me, but we had a job to do. Besides, she was the little sister, and we all had to remember that.
“Why don’t all you niggas stay focused on the task at hand and not my ass,” Reagan snapped. “Fucking pervs.”
“Kinda hard not to pay attention when it’s sitting out there like that, baby,” I told her in a low tone so my voice wouldn’t carry and give away my location.
Lelo chuckled. “And you know I’m an ass man. I like ass. Don’t matter if it’s male or female. If it’s sitting pretty, I’m on it like stank on shit.”
“Really, bruh?” Stitch said, cutting in. “You’re going to go with that analogy while talking about ass?” he asked his lover.
Reagan cackled loudly. I wanted to laugh, but I had to keep my voice low.
“Shut up, man. Don’t start with me today. I’m already pissed at you,” Lelo responded.
“Pissed at me? For what now? You know, if I didn’t know you had a dick, I’d swear you were female. Always nagging me about some shit,” Stitch fussed.
“Because you always doing stupid shit, nigga. Like drinking all the fucking milk, so when I go to fix me and the kids some Cap’n Crunch, we can’t eat the shit.”
“I didn’t drink the milk. Carmen did.”
“When was Carmen at the house?” Lelo asked.
“Yesterday morning, fuck boy.”
Lelo smacked his lips. “I told you about calling me that shit . . .”
“Oh Lord. Here we go,” Reagan groaned.
I just shook my head and chuckled as I pulled out my black biker gloves. The fingers had been cut out. Thumbtacks had been pushed into the inside so that the pointy parts were sticking out on the back of the gloves.
“Hey,” I snapped. “Desi and Lucy, chill out. We got action. Reagan is going in.”
I watched as Reagan walked down the sidewalk, passed the window the one Viking had been guarding. For any man, to see Reagan strutting by was neck-breaking action. Didn’t take long for the Viking to stick his head out the window.
“Where you going, baby?” he asked Reagan.
“Why? You offering to take me?” she replied in a voice coated with innuendo.
“I got something you can ride on to get there,” the blond male told her.
She smiled wide, then licked her lips. “Yeah?”
He nodded and smiled like he knew something she didn’t. Didn’t take long for a few of the other males in the house to take notice of her. The two in the kitchen rushed around to see what all the fuss was about. Since the kitchen was separated from the living room by a swinging door, I snuck around the back way. I jiggled the doorknob and found that it was unlocked. I pushed the door open, then closed it quietly behind me. The front door opened and closed. I could hear Reagan talking as I quietly examined the items on the counter. Pictures of me and my crew were lying about, an indication they had been watching us.
Some of those photos were from weeks ago, and that puzzled me. Had they been watching us the whole time? Was the hit on us not as random as I had once thought?
“How much for all of us, baby?” I heard a gruff voice ask Reagan. He was already growling and groaning.
“Well, that depends, suga. What you boys trying to get into?” Reagan cooed.
“Well, you, of course, darling.”
Laughter echoed around the living room.
“I need you to send one of them to the kitchen, Reagan,” I told her. “Need to get the numbers down. You keep an eye on the one you think would be easiest to make talk.”
“As you wish,” she answered, but she did it in a way that made the men think she was talking to them. “Somebody get me a drink and put some music on. I’ma show you white boys how we do it in the A. Anybody ever tell you, you look like Eric Northman from True Blood?”
The chorus of “Round of Applause” started to beat through the house. I heard Reagan ask what they knew about that. They eagerly spoke up, each one trying to outbrag the others about being down.
“All the time,” one said as he pushed the door open to the kitchen.
He was so busy looking over his shoulder at Reagan that he didn’t see me standing behind the door. Once he closed it, I swept his legs out from under him. His forehead hit the kitchen table hard, knocking him backward. His eyes widened when he saw me. The recognition in them let me know he had been watching us long enough for him to know who I was by my face alone.
He went for the gun in his waistband. I grabbed his wrist and twisted it. Sent my fist flying into his face, drawing blood instantly because of the thumbtacks on the back of my glove. I grabbed the black hunting knife from the back of my waist and shoved it into his neck. Sliced him from ear to ear.
“I got one down,” I told my team. “Lelo, you ready to go? Be careful, though, and try to hide your face as much as possible. These mofos got surveillance photos of us.”
“I’m on it, boss,” I heard him say.
“Stitch, cover him.”
“You already know I got him covered,” Stitch told me.
While I waited for them to make their move, I looked at the dead man on the floor and grunted when I saw he really did look like ole boy from True Blood. Waka Flocka blasted in my ear. Reagan was laughing and inviting men to touch her nipple piercings. I pushed the door open to the kitchen only enough to get an eye view of what was going on. She had the biggest one on the couch and was straddling his lap, with her top off. The skirt she had on was up around her waist, and her perfectly rounded brown ass was on display. Two of the men were kissing it, while two more looked on in eager anticipation.
There was a loud knock on the door, which jarred them out of the lust-induced trance Reagan had them in.
The big one Reagan had been sitting on tossed her to the side as they all grabbed guns. He jerked his head toward the door, silently telling another dude to answer it. The one who raced to the door had a scar on his face; it looked like someone had branded him.
He snatched the door open, gun aimed.
“Whoa, man,” Lelo said. “Y’all ordered pizza, right?” he asked, with a Domino’s carrying case in one hand and a receipt in the other hand, which was up in the air.
In the movies this scheme normall
y worked. But since this wasn’t a movie, we really had had to intercept a call they’d put in for pizza. Since I didn’t want to risk one of my people being killed by these trigger-happy motherfuckers, I thought that would be the best thing to do.
Lelo nodded at me from the door. He was playing his part so well, one would think he was actually a Domino’s delivery guy. He had on the khaki pants, a Domino’s uniform shirt, and all. Red and blue cap was pulled down, shielding the top half of his face. Scarface snatched the pizza from his hands, then threw money at him.
Lelo frowned. “Damn, homeboy. It ain’t gotta be all that,” he said as he kneeled to pick up the money.
“Shut up and get the fuck out of here, fucking spic,” Scarface said to Lelo.
“Yeah, whatever,” Lelo said as he shook his head. He counted the money, then sarcastically retorted, “Thanks for the tip.” Lelo turned to walk away, then turned back around. “Oh yeah, you forgot something.”
Before Scarface could say anything, Stitch came around the corner with two Desert Eagle .50 caliber pistols aimed at the man’s face.
“Who the spic now?” Stitch asked Scarface. The man tried to aim his gun but thought about it. “Nah, homeboy. I wouldn’t do that if I was you. Back on up.”
The rest of the men in the room looked on in silence. Lelo walked in behind Stitch, slammed the door behind him, and then kicked the radio over. Waka’s voice croaked out as Lelo snatched up the MAC-11 that had been left on the coffee table.
“I told you we shouldn’t have holed up in the hood,” Scarface said to the big man.
He spat out the word hood as if it were something foul he needed to get off his tongue. They’d been so busy trying to get in Reagan’s goods, they hadn’t even noticed their man hadn’t come back from the kitchen yet.
“Now, this can go good or bad. It all depends on you,” Lelo explained.
Stitch still had his gun aimed at Scarface. There was a scowl on Stitch’s face that said he was anxious to take the man out. More than likely it was because he’d insulted Lelo.
