Panting and sweating like a pig, I pull myself up into sitting position. Despite that success, the room won’t stop spinning.
The baby.
It’s the idea of an innocent life hanging in the balance that prevents me from drowning in self-pity right now. Never mind that the child picked the wrong night to come into this dangerous world. Then again, when is a safe time?
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
Are those muthafuckas getting closer? I swear someone is shooting right near the front door.
Bam! The front door explodes open. Booted feet race inside the house.
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
An explosion of more firepower does a number on my eardrums, but I only have a couple of seconds to decide on a play. Both the gun and the phone are still out of reach. But I can’t move my legs. Within seconds of them rushing into the living room, I figure my best option is to play dead. Since I’m already in a pool of my own blood. Quickly, I flop back down onto the floor and close my eyes. Through the mesh of my lashes, I recognize the first man through the door.
Python. The six-foot-five giant storms inside, cloaked in all black except for the blue flag hanging from his back pocket. He looks like he’s just been spat out of hell. His muscular arms are boulders and are tatted with so much ink that you can’t make head or tail of what they all are. Black as sin and ugly as shit, LeShelle really knew how to pick them. Behind him rush in three other men—all equally terrifying.
I hold my breath and pray.
The world shifts into slow motion. Though I’m trying my best to lie still, I fear one of these thugs will fire off another bullet to make sure that I’m dead.
“Who is that bitch?” a voice asks.
There’s a long pause in which my lungs begs for air.
“If I’m not mistaken, it sort of looks like LeShelle’s sister, Ta’Shara,” Python answers, standing over me. With his black Timberlands, he nudges my leg to see if I respond. I stay in character like an Oscar-winning actress.
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
The bullets from outside again.
It takes everything I have not to flinch or open my eyes to check out what the fuck is going on.
“Hurry up! These bumblebee niggas are coming out the woodwork!”
Another explosion of gunfire erupts. It feels like my eardrums are bleeding inside of my head.
“Everybody split up and search this bitch. I know that muthafucka got to be around here someplace!”
Who the fuck is that? The voice isn’t familiar, but he’s definitely an older dude. But why is he giving orders instead of Python?
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
“Hurry!”
Everyone peels off. Heavy footsteps rush up the stairs. Seconds later, more gunfire.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Lucifer! I steal a small sip of air and risk opening my eyes.
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
What the hell is going on up there?
“Yo! What the fuck?” Python thunders from above.
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
“Move your ass!” the OG barks as he takes on the VL soldiers closing in on the house.
“We got a situation up here,” Python roars back.
“Handle it!” The older gangster continues blasting at the Vice Lords.
My heart drops as I steal another sip of air. There’s not much I can do for Lucifer . . . but pray.
4
Lucifer
“SIX POPPIN’, FIVE DROPPIN’.”
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
“What the fuck?” The Gangster Disciples. How in the hell did they get past security on Ruby Cove? Then I remember: My man, Mason, likely took the bulk of our soldiers with him to meet our new arms dealer, Fowler. After the ambush of our last distributer, the Angels of Mercy motorcycle club, Mason wouldn’t risk walking into another trap. Only problem is that our enemies caught wind of the light security and decided to strike.
Panic, an emotion I’m not accustomed to, seizes me. I’m not in any condition to go into battle. I’ve never needed Mason more than right now. Hell, I’ve never needed anyone more than I do right now. What if I really have to deliver this baby alone—next to this dead bitch?
Damn it. I knew shit was going to pop off when the news broke about King Isaac, the ex-chief of the Gangster Disciples, returning home from prison. While he was serving his dime bid, his stepson-slash-nephew, Python, became the head nigga with the Gangster Disciples. The recent revelations of Python and Mason actually being biological brothers has changed nothing, especially since they are now operating under the misunderstanding that Mason killed Python’s beloved Aunt Peaches.
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
The windows behind me explode and shards of broken glass rain over me. Belatedly, I cover my head and press my body against the floor.
My baby shifts and a bolt of pain shoots through my body. My attention snaps toward the door. “Ta’Shara! What the fuck is going on down there?” I lie still and strain my ears to listen for the teenager’s response, but there’s none. “Ta’Shara! Are you still down there?”
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat.
I can’t hear shit.
Now what? I look around, but there’s nothing here but this dead bitch who got me in this weakened condition in the first place. My anger renewed, I scoot over a couple of inches so I can shoot out a foot and kick Shariffa one last time in the head. However, my toes bend at contact with her mushy dome. Did I just break my shit? My irrational anger has me wishing that I could shoot the bitch again myself.
Where the fuck did she even get the balls to roll up in my crib to try and take me out? Surely after I chopped up most of her small crew of Crippettes, she should’ve known better.
Shariffa and her purple-flagging minions were responsible for my brother Bishop’s death. Before that, they were a constant thorn in the Vice Lords’ side while we raged our street war with the Gangster Disciples. The Crippettes took the opportunity to knock over a number of the Vice Lords’ chop-and trap-houses. Our lack of response to those small attacks gave these Kool-Aid bitches a big enough set of balls to hit Da Club, one of the Vice Lords’ main establishments. Bishop, along with his poker partners in the back of the club, ended up being smack-dab in the middle of their hit and got their heads blown off.
I smirk at Shariffa’s brainless body. Karma is a bitch.
“Aargh!” I clutch at my moving belly. I’m not ready. Please, God. I’m not ready.
My body’s response to that move is to hit me with a one-two punch that literally snatches my breath away. The pain is never ending. After all the battles that I’ve been through in these streets, it’s the thought of actually delivering a baby that terrifies me.
Tears splash down my face. Within seconds they’re like a river that I don’t even attempt to stop. Crying is not my thing, but I’m at a loss at what else to do.
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
Mason Junior delivers a fierce kick to my kidneys. To further embarrass myself, I piss on the floor. “I don’t fucking believe this shit.” To my surprise, a strong part of me wants to submit, lie here and accept whatever my fate might be. Caring about what happens takes up too much energy. That shit is so fucking tempting . . . until I hear the front door of the house kicked in.
Bam!
I spring upwards using some reserve of strength that I didn’t even know I had. I take another glance around for a weapon. I know that there is a gun tucked underneath one of the bed pillows—but there’s no way I can get to it. There’s another one in the nightstand and two more in the chest of drawers—but I can’t reach any of those either.
“This can’t be happening,” I say, stressing as I attempt to pull myself together. I push aside the fact that my baby is splitting me in half and force myself to f
igure a way out of this fucked-up situation.
The only weapon that’s even close is Shariffa’s Browning knife—and I learned a long time ago to never bring a knife to a gunfight.
Think. Think. Think.
That’s hard to do when terror overtakes you like a tsunami and then drowns out logical and strategic thinking.
My gaze falls back onto Shariffa, and I have a sudden thought: There’s not a gangster bitch walking Memphis’s mean streets who doesn’t strap on more than one weapon, especially when she’s going into battle.
Inspired, I struggle to inch my pain-riddled body across my bedroom floor. As I reach her, male voices travel up the stairs.
Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.
I roll Shariffa onto her back, ignore that she’s missing half of her face, and pat her ass down. I grope under her titties, slide my hands down her waist and over her hips. I find what I’m looking for strapped around her left calf: a .38—fully loaded.
Heavy footsteps rush up the staircase.
I unclick the safety. With the weapon in my hand, my panic shuts down and the blood in my veins turn ice-cold. Within seconds, Python’s reptilian ass materializes and I squeeze the trigger.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Python’s reflexes are fast as fuck. He dives out of the way and then returns fire, his semiautomatic spraying bullets in my direction.
I drop back, trying to duck. All but one bullet misses me. More pain shoots up my arm as the .38 flies out of my hand. Once I’m disarmed, Python takes another tentative step into my bloody bedroom.
His gaze zooms to the body lying next to me. Recognition slams into him.
“Yo! What the fuck?” he thunders.
I can only imagine what must be running through his mind at seeing one of his ex-wifeys sprawled across my floor with half of her head missing. Despite the damage to my hand, I throw my pain-riddled body toward the gun that had flown out of it.
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
Bullets slam into the floorboard in front of me and I am repelled backwards a second before I’m nailed by another bullet in the center of my hand.
“Aaagh!”
“Ah. Ah. Ah,” Python warns before inching farther into the room. This time his weapon and his attention are trained on me. “Where’s your nigga at?” he growls.
“Don’t you mean your brother?” I challenge.
Rage flares in Python’s black eyes while his square jaw hardens like cement. “That ugly shit-stain ain’t nobody to me but one of the walking dead,” he sneers. “And I’m going to fix that shit soon enough. Now where the fuck is he?”
“Fuck you,” I hiss, and thrust up my chin. “I ain’t telling you shit.”
“Move your ass!” a man barks from downstairs.
“We got a situation up here,” Python roars back.
“Handle it!” the man shouts.
Watching Python erase the small distance between us, I quickly put together the identity of the man who’s barking orders. King Isaac. No way my ass is getting out of this shit alive.
Python places the barrel of his weapon against my forehead. “Are you seriously going to make me ask your ass the question a third time?”
I press my head forward, ignoring the way the barrel digs into my skull. “Fuck. You. Do I need to tell you that a third time?” Our gazes lock in a showdown. Surely this muthafucka don’t think my ass is going to beg him to spare my life. I knew what the fuck this life was about when I joined the Vice Lords. And I’ve put down plenty of begging niggas in my lifetime to know that the shit ain’t cute nor does it help the situation.
Python blinks and then sweeps his black gaze across my belly where my unborn child visibly wiggles beneath my nightshirt.
“Python! We got to roll,” King Isaac shouts up the stairs. “We can’t hold these cockroaches off much longer.”
Someone else rushes up the staircase. “Whoa,” a miscellaneous nigga gasps when he reaches my bedroom door. I’m sure he’s assuming that Python put down Shariffa.
“Boss, we really gotta go! Their reinforcements are descending fast.”
If Python hears his boy, he gives no indication. His horrific features remain a hard, unchangeable mask of contempt.
“C’mon. Let’s get this shit over with,” I snap, pressing my head even harder into the barrel. “Shoot me.” The pain ricocheting up my body has me thinking, for a moment, that a bullet would be a welcome reprieve. Hell. Anything would be better than the torture that my unborn child is putting me through.
Python lowers his weapon. “Grab her,” he tells his man.
His boy and I look at Python, confused.
“What?” the soldier asks.
Python steps back as disgust reflects in his face. “You heard me. We’re taking her with us.”
His man rushes forward.
“Fuck you. I’m not going anywhere with you.” I slap his soldier’s grabbing hands away from me.
“Just snatch her up,” Python snaps.When his man is unable to get ahold of me, Python steps forward again, leans down and crashes his fist across my jaw.
My head rockets backwards as an explosion of cartoon stars spin like a carousel behind my eyes. I’m aware of being jerked up and tossed over a muscled shoulder. The pain in my body accelerates and every muscle, tendon, and even atom seizes with mind-altering cramps.
I black out—but only for a moment. When I come to, the broad back that I’m staring down at has reached the bottom of my staircase.
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
“We’re going to have to make a run for it,” King Isaac shouts.
I turn my head in the direction of his voice, but it’s not the infamous gangster that catches my attention. There, in a pool of blood in the entrance of the living room, lies a motionless Ta’Shara. Shit.
“Let’s go!”
My kidnapper takes off running from the house.
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
Bullets fly all around us, a few whispering by my head as I kick and pound on Python’s back. It’s no use. Before I know it, I’m slung into the backseat of an SUV. Thoughts of further rebellion are shut down when I spring to attack, only to be elbowed so hard across the face that I reel backwards. My head connects with the side window, knocking me out cold.
5
Mack
Gunfire has a way of jolting muthafuckas out of a high and slamming them back to reality. Shit happens so quick that the world tilts on its axis. This shit isn’t one or two shots from random niggas, popping off some bullshit. The gunfire that we hear as we approach Ruby Cove is long, sustained, rapid fire.
“What the fuck?” Dime asks a second before bullets puncture the windshield. Her foot comes off the accelerator and her hands off the steering wheel to shield her face.
I lunge for the wheel before we run up onto a curb. “What the fuck, Dime?” I shout, pissed at her inability to protect our lives. Though I’ve grabbed the wheel, we still go up on a curb. Thank God I’m able to get us off it before we smack head-on into a utility pole.
“Sorry. Sorry!” she shouts, taking back control of the wheel.
“You got it?” I double-check, not sure whether I’m ready to trust her ass again.
“Yeah. Yeah. I got it.”
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
More lead slams into my ride. The passenger-side window explodes into a million pieces while the hood pops up and blocks our line of vision.
“Shit!” Dime slams on the brakes without checking to see if anyone is driving behind us. At the sound of another set of brakes squealing in protest, I twist in my seat in time to see a black Lincoln plow into us.
Crash.
Flying backward, I bang into the dashboard. The car horn blares a second time when Dime’s head smacks into the center of the steering wheel. When she lifts it, there’s a visible dent in the center of her forehead.
“Shit,
Mack. Are you all right?”
Romil cries out. I’d forgotten that she was passed out in the back. She’s no longer lying on the seat but crumpled on the floorboard, unable to distinguish which way is up. Still, the gunfire continues. My shock wears off and I push away from the dashboard and then dive head first between Dime’s legs so that I can search the floorboards under the driver’s seat for a weapon.When I climb back up with my Glock in hand, I click off the safety and scan the perimeter.
“SIX POPPIN’, FIVE DROPPIN’,” the unmistakable war cry rings out.
No these niggas ain’t. The Gangster Disciples laying assault on our muthafuckin’ territory? What the fuck? I can’t remember these muthafuckas ever being this goddamn bold.
My mind flies to our murking LeShelle’s ass tonight. Have the Gangster Disciples found out about the shit that fast? Is this a revenge assault? Had Profit gotten caught dumping the body? My mind reaches for any scenario that would make some sense of this shit. At the end of the day, the whys don’t matter. The only thing to do now is to stand our ground and fight back.
The driver’s-side window shatters and Dime’s head explodes like a watermelon. Brain and blood splatters everywhere and for a few seconds I’m in shock again.
Romil climbs up from off the floor, notices Dime’s body slumped over the wheel, and screams.
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
“Shut the fuck up,” I shout, pushing Dime’s body away from me so that I can have access to return fire.
Pow! Pow! Pow! I aim for any damn thing moving. I don’t give a shit.
Romil shuts up and dives back onto the floorboard. It was probably best, since she doesn’t have a weapon. A gangster bitch no-no.
The car behind us is also filled with Vice Lords, and they exit their vehicle and engage in the firefight as well. I can tell that we’re on the losing side. We’re outmanned and outgunned. There are too many of these muthafuckas blasting and too many of us dropping dead on the street.
This shit can’t be happening. I fire my last round at one GD soldier with a big head and miss. Fuck. I scramble around in vain for another clip. In my mind’s eye I can see it lying on the coffee table next to the mirror with the last line of cocaine. Our asses are sitting ducks out here. There ain’t shit that we can do about it.
Queen Divas Page 3
