Carl Weber Presents Ride or Die Chick 3

by J. M. Benjamin

  Carl Weber Presents:

  Ride or Die Chick 3

  J.M. Benjamin

  www.urbanbooks.net

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Carl Weber Presents: Ride or Die Chick 3

  Also by J.M. Benjamin

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Copyright Page

  Carl Weber Presents:

  Ride or Die Chick 3

  by

  J.M. Benjamin

  Also by J.M. Benjamin

  Down In The Dirty

  Ride or Die Chick

  Ride or Die Chick 2

  Ride or Die Chick 3

  On The Run With Love

  From Incarceration 2 Incorporation

  Heaven & Earth

  My Manz And ’Em (Revised Edition)

  Memoirs Of An Accidental Hustler

  Soft (An Anthology)

  Menace II Society (Anthology)

  Christmas In The Hood (Anthology)

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to all the many supporters who have rode for me continuously throughout the past and recent years.

  The moment you stop riding will be the moment I put down my pen!

  This book is also dedicated to ALL the Independent Authors/Publishers who ride for themselves and continue to make their presence felt in this competitive literary world. To you I say, keep making yourselves relevant and continue to be the Bosses that you are because contrary to what’s been said or what others think, hard work does pay off!

  J.M. Benjamin

  Prologue

  “So, today’s the big day, huh, Chief?” Officer Boatright asked as he brought his hand down on Chief Randle’s shoulder and applied pressure.

  “And what day might that be?” the chief asked dryly, never taking his eyes off his computer monitor.

  “Come on, Chief. Admit it. You’re excited about retiring. No more staying up late, solving crime, chasing bad guys, kicking ass and taking names. Not to mention, eating stale donuts and drinking bad coffee on the go.” Officer Boatright laughed at his own humor.

  Chief Randle’s fingers came to a halt on the keypad and mouse. He spun around in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “If you really want to know, Boatright, no, I’m not going to miss all of the excitement that goes on around here and in this city. And, yes, I’m actually looking forward to quiet days on my boat, fishing and tossing back a couple of shots and brews. I’ve busted my hump long enough on this force. Now, it’s time to pass the torch to one of you guys with no life, so I can start living mine.” With that said, Chief Randle returned to what he had been doing prior to the officer’s interruption.

  “Come on, Chief. I was just joking,” Officer Boatright chimed. “You can’t be serious. I mean, everyone knows how much you love your work. You mean to tell me there’s nothing you’re going to miss?” Officer Boatright asked.

  “As a matter of fact, there is.” There was a brief pause. “The stale donuts and bad coffee. Now, get out of here, so I can finish up here.” Chief Randle spun his chair back around.

  Officer Boatright couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. “That was a good one, Chief, but, if you’re not going to miss all of this, then why are you still reading up on that old case on your last day, a case that is already closed and buried?”

  Officer Boatright refused to let it go. He had no way of knowing his words would spark something. Chief Randle spun around for the second time like Linda Blair’s head in The Exorcist.

  “Mind your goddamn business and get the hell out of here!” the chief boomed.

  The officer’s eyes widened, but he was not in the least bit shocked by the chief’s words or tone. Everyone knew how much of a hard ass he could be at times, but the officer did not know what he had said to cause the chief’s outburst.

  “Chief, whatever I said, I’m sorry,” Officer Boatright apologized as he backed away from Chief Randle’s desk.

  Chief Randle excused him with the wave of a hand. Once he was alone, he dug into the inside pocket of his jacket and retrieved his prescription anxiety pills. He popped the top, dumped two in his hand, and tossed them into his mouth. He chased them down with a cup of cold Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, which had been sitting for most of the morning.

  Ever since the “suicide by cop” incident had occurred, he had been having nightmares and anxiety attacks. Images of the scene invaded his dreams regularly and were the cause of many sleepless nights. He had played the tape back a million times in his head, wondering whether something could have been done differently to prevent the tragic ending.

  In all of his years as a cop, he had never experienced or witnessed anything like the situation that day on Highway 264. It amazed him that a mother could threaten to kill her own child and actually go through with it. He had been in the presence of some of the most hardened criminals in the State of Virginia and could recognize the menacing look in their eyes on site. That was why he had made the decision he had that day. Chief Randle had learned many years ago that he could learn a lot from a person’s eyes. The coldhearted eyes of Teflon Jackson and the innocence in her son’s eyes were what convinced Chief Randle to pull the trigger that day. He knew she meant business and knew he had to make a decision before she did.

  It was that same pair of murderous eyes that had been staring him in the face in his dreams ever since. Chief Randle could still see her body sprawled out on the highway’s pavement, wide-eyed and staring into his soul. Even when he thought he could shake that one set of eyes and reason with himself that he had done the right thing, it was the second pair that created the most damage. Chief Randle could never forget the way the young kid had looked up at him with tearful eyes as he laid across his mother’s chest. Chief Randle had offered all he could that day, but he knew that it was not enough. He had put himself in the kid’s shoes and knew it would not have been enough for him either. Chief Randle remembered how shocked the kid appeared as the paramedics detached him from his deceased mother. He also remembered how the look of shock turned into something more and how the young kid’s eyes transformed from a soft brown to a hard black as he made one last attempt to comfort the boy.

  “You killed my mother. I won’t ever forget you,” the boy had said.

  The words had echoed in the chief’s mind and haunted him in his sleep since the whole ordeal had transpired. Nearly two years had passed now, and, after retracing every step and combing over every inch of the case, he was finally confident that he had not been
in error. He was now able to believe it when he said that if he had to do it all over again, there was nothing he would have done differently.

  Chief Randle clicked his mouse and closed out the file titled Gangster Mom’s Death by Cop. Then, he scooped up the disarrayed papers on his desk and shoved them into the trash can.

  “Good riddance!” he mumbled. It was if as though a ton of weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He was relieved to be done with his own personal investigation of himself. He had to be sure he had done everything by the book.

  “Now, no more nightmares,” he said aloud to himself.

  Chief Randle stood up and grabbed his belongings. Then, he made his final exit from the Norfolk precinct.

  Chapter 1

  “Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?” the white bank teller said, flashing her million dollar smile. Her name tag announced that her name was Christina.

  “Yes, I would like to make a withdrawal,” the dapper man answered as he placed his briefcase on the counter. He was well groomed and wore a black suit and tie.

  Christina Kawoski couldn’t help but notice how neatly the black gentleman’s beard and mustache were trimmed. Almost to the point of being fake, she thought.

  “Sure. Okay, I can help you with that. I assume you have an account here with us, so how much would you like?” Her smile was still plastered across her face. She briefly lowered her gaze to avoid staring at the customer. Had she paid closer attention, things might have turned out differently.

  “I want it all, bitch!” the customer turned bank robber growled.

  His words immediately drew Christina’s attention back to him. Her eyes nearly shot out of her head at the sight of the gun he was brandishing. “Please, don’t shoot,” she stuttered. “I have a two-year-old,” she added as she instinctively threw up her hands.

  “Put your fuckin’ hands down!” the robber snarled.

  A nervous twenty-two-year-old Christina Kawoski did as she was told, and quickly lowered her hands.

  “Now, fill this mu’fuckin’ briefcase up with nothing but hundreds,” he instructed, while cautiously looking from left to right. Convinced that neither bank teller on either side of her had any clue as to what was taking place, the robber refocused his attention on Christina. He had returned his attention to her just in time. Before Christina Kawoski could change her mind regarding the foolish decision she had made, her thoughts were forcefully blown out of her head by the robber’s .50-caliber Desert Eagle and sprayed all over the elderly female bank teller’s face who stood to the right of her. The elderly teller screamed hysterically. Her screams were instantly silenced by the next shot.

  At that point, the entire bank was in a frenzied uproar. Sensing imminent danger, the security guard reached for his service revolver, but he never got to pull it. Instead, he heard the sound of a pistol being cocked right before the back of his head split open from the impact of the shot that was delivered to it from a .357 snub-nosed. The robber’s partner had wasted no time backing him up. The security guard never noticed the woman dressed in all-black Islamic attire, but she had been eyeing his every move from the moment she and her partner entered the bank.

  “Everybody! Down on the floor! Now!”

  The male robber had drawn a second weapon and pointed it in the direction of other customers and workers while locking his first weapon on the last teller behind the counter.

  “You got two choices. You can be smart and live or be a stupid hero and die,” he told the black bank teller who was on the left of the deceased Christina Kawoski. If he’d had any plans on pushing the silent alarm underneath the counter, they were immediately changed after hearing the choices given to him by the robber.

  “It’s not your money, and it’s insured,” the robber added.

  The teller threw his hands up in the air and backed away from the counter.

  “Good choice. Now, I need you to come over here and fill this briefcase up with all hundreds,” the robber instructed.

  The bank teller nervously made his way over to where his dead colleague once stood.

  “Now, as an extra precaution, just in case you decide to change your mind like your friend lying down there, I’m going to press this gun up against your temple as a reminder, you understand?”

  The bank teller nodded.

  “Babe, three more minutes,” the robber’s partner informed him.

  “You heard the lady. Three more minutes. That means you only got one and a half before I blow your brains out and finish your job.”

  The robber’s words were all the motivation the bank teller needed to speed up. In under a minute, the briefcase was filled to capacity with hundred dollar bills.

  “Now, come around and lie over there with the rest of them.” The robber waved his gun, and the teller did as he was told.

  “Thank you, everyone, for your cooperation. If you want to live, I advise you to stay down until help arrives.”

  The robber calmly glided past the bodies that covered the floor, making his way over to the entrance of the bank, where his partner stood. As he walked with the briefcase in his hand, he heard one of the female hostages utter something but couldn’t quite make out what the woman had said. Apparently, his partner had because she rushed over to the woman and grabbed her by her hair.

  “Stand up, bitch!”

  The female robber yanked the white woman up and onto her feet. The woman groaned in agony from the death grip the female robber had on her hair.

  “Repeat that shit you just said,” she ordered.

  It was as though her words had fallen on deaf ears because the white woman said nothing.

  “Bitch, I said repeat that shit!” The robber shoved her gun into the woman’s mouth and pried it open with the barrel of the weapon. The white woman gagged and uttered something that was inaudible.

  The robber removed her gun and asked, “Now, what did you say?”

  “I said, ‘Fucking niggers,’” she repeated dryly.

  “That’s what I thought you said.”

  The roar from the point-blank shot sent terrifying chills through all who witnessed the coldblooded act. Men, women, and children cringed with fear, hoping they would not be next.

  “Do we have any more racist muthafuckas who would like to speak up?” she asked sarcastically.

  There were no replies. Her partner shook his head as he thought of the monster he had created in his lover. “Babe, let’s go,” he said as he held the door open for her.

  Then, he faced the horrified hostages and said, “Thank you again.”

  He turned around just in time to witness his lover’s body being cut down as she was met with a barrage of bullets that found a resting place in her chest. Before he had time to react, a bullet from a sniper’s gun slammed into his skull, causing him to tumble back into the bank. His body went crashing to the floor.

  “No!” young Treacherous Freeman Jr. screamed as he woke up in a cold sweat.

  Another bad dream about his parents had been the cause of yet another rude awakening. The other kids who shared a room with Treacherous were used to his nightmares and knew to say nothing. Many of them were afraid of him, so, even if they wanted to say something, they wouldn’t. Ever since he had come to the group home, he had been having bad dreams. None of the dreams were ever the same but always ended the same and seemed so real. The end results were always that his parents were gunned down.

  Almost three years had gone by, and young Treacherous still could not escape the recurring nightmares. The bad dreams remained fresh in his young mind. Ironically, after each nightmare, young Treacherous always found relief by going back to read something about his parents in one of his mother’s journals he was allowed to keep after her tragic death. At that point, he had read his mother’s journals so many times that he knew by heart what was on each page.

  Treacherous reached under his mattress and retrieved one of them. After the last nightmare, he finished reading the words of his mother’s final
account of her and his father. Whenever he finished, he would always start reading from the beginning again. Although he could nearly recite the words on the pages, he continued to read because he always felt a connection to his parents whenever he read his mother’s words in her own handwriting. Treacherous cracked open one of the notebooks and read until he couldn’t read anymore.

  Chapter 2

  Fifteen-year-old Treacherous Freeman Jr. awoke to the sound of the birds chirping outside the window of his bedroom in the group home’s attic. His bed was located near the window. As usual, he had dozed off while reading about his parents. It was not a surprise to him that he had the journal clenched close to his chest when he opened his eyes. Treacherous slid the journal underneath his mattress and climbed out of bed. He kneeled beside his bed, folded his hands together, and began his day the way he normally did, by talking to his parents.

  “Good morning, Mom and Dad. I couldn’t sleep last night. I had another bad dream about you. Like the rest of them, it seemed real, but I knew it wasn’t. Y’all were dressed in disguises this time and almost got away, but, Mom, instead of Daddy losing his temper, in this one, it was you. Some lady made a racist remark, and you taught her a lesson. I think, if you would’ve just left, y’all would’ve made it out of there and it wouldn’t have been a nightmare. The police were waiting for y’all out front, and they started shooting, and, Mom, you got shot up, and so did you, Dad. That’s when I woke up. It didn’t scare me because I’m used to it, but it made me mad because I wanted y’all to get away.

  “I think about y’all all the time, especially you, Mom, and the last time I saw you. I can’t stop thinking about that policeman who took you from me. If it weren’t for him, you would still be here, and I wouldn’t be in here. When I get out of here, I’m going to find him, if it’s the last thing I do.

  “I hate this place. I hate the way they treat me here, like I’m some retard, and I hate the way they tell me what to do. I’m not going to be here too much longer, though. I have a plan. I promise I won’t do anything without letting y’all know first. I just wanted to tell you about my nightmare, but, like always, Mom, after I read one of your journals, I felt better, and I fell asleep. They be wanting me to read these history books, but I’d rather read the history of y’all. I can’t wait to leave Richmond and go over to the Seven Cities where you guys and my granddad were from. Well, that’s it for now. I’ll talk to you later. I love you both.”