Also by Shaun Sinclair
Blood Ties
The Crescent Crew Series
Street Rap
King Reece
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
KING REECE
SHAUN
SINCLAIR
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
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
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 by Shaun Sinclair
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Dafina and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-2108-2
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2109-9 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-2109-8 (ebook)
First Kensington Electronic Edition: July 2019
PROLOGUE
April 9, 2009
The man’s naked, chiseled torso dripped with sweat as he pounded out a set of pushups. Headphones covered his ears, blasting raunchy rap music at ignorant levels. The song hadn’t been released yet, but the man had an exclusive copy. He jammed the song so much that he knew the lyrics by heart.
He rapped, “When it come to my bars, niggas fear ’em like prison, they start squealing like pigeons, praying to God that I miss ’em! Oooooh!!!”
The last line hyped him up so much he hopped from the floor and threw a few imaginary punches at the air. He was in his zone now, doing his normal routine to break the monotony of his predicament. He lived vicariously through the music. When he bumped his tunes, he drowned out the sounds of prison. With the right song playing, he wasn’t confined to a USP; he was a teenager again, roaming the halls of 71st Senior High looking for a classmate to battle. Or he was in the trenches again, putting in the work that would make him a legend in the streets. The right song dictated his mood. With the now-popular trap rap booming in his ears, he reveled in his status as a Trap Lord, and for a brief moment, he wondered what would have become of his life if he had decided to pursue a music career on his terms.
However, when the music stopped, he was forced to deal with the reality of who he was.
King Reece pushed the headphones from his head and allowed them to rest on his neck. He inhaled the stale air inside his cell and focused his attention on the wall in front of him. Taped to his wall were newspaper clippings and photos of the last four years of his life. It was his shrine of sorts, the thing that kept him going. Each portion of the collage served a purpose for him.
On the top left of the wall was the article that started it all. The headline read, “Heavy Is the Head That Wears the Crown.” The article spoke of his trial and the mysterious five-year plea agreement. The article made him seem larger than life, mythic even. It detailed some uncorroborated stories of his drug empire—tales of kidnappings, murders, and lynchings. They estimated he and his gang, the Crescent Crew, had amassed more than $50 million in just two short years, and that his personal wealth was somewhere around $30 million. In the article, the writer stressed that the Crescent Crew lived their ethos—Death Before Dishonor—to the letter, in that no one from his organization turned rat in his absence. They were rumored to still be operating in his absence and stronger than ever.
King Reece had placed this article strategically first in his collage. He read the article daily to remind himself who he was and of his purpose. Being in prison was a constant battle of the mind, and even the strongest man felt weak at times. This article reminded King Reece of his stature, of his family who believed in him. This article reminded King Reece of the empire he had built from the ground up and why he couldn’t fall victim to the instability of his incarcerated thoughts.
Beside the first article was another clipping. The headline read, “Music Mogul Dodges Prison.” This article spoke of Qwess, King Reece’s right-hand man, brother, and co-founder of the Crescent Crew. King Reece had taken his plea agreement to save Qwess from any further investigation by the feds. Qwess was on the cusp of superstardom as a rapper, producer, and label head when King Reece was apprehended and set to stand trial. Before his trial began, Reece had one of the Crew abduct one of the juror’s children in exchange for a not-guilty verdict. He acted ultra-cocky at trial, and the federal prosecutor knew the fix was in. To insure a conviction, the government arrested Qwess and threatened to pin a charge on him unless Reece took a plea agreement. In the end, Reece sacrificed his life for that of his comrade.
Beside this article were numerous photos of Qwess attending industry events, photos of him on 60 Minutes, Forbes listing photos, and other media clippings.
This section was important to Reece because it bore witness to the strength of their brotherhood and the results of his sacrifice. King Reece would travel out of the galaxy and fight the sun for his brother Qwess to live in peace, and he knew Qwess felt the same way. They lived, breathed, and were willing to die for each other. This was Crew Business.
A Young Jeezy song screamed from the speakers around King Reece’s neck, a song about how amazing he was. Reece could relate, so he threw the headphones on, hit the floor, and got some money. After he completed his set of fifty pushups, he stood and studied his mural again.
The next section of his mural was a testament to false love, his only mistake and Achilles heel in an otherwise beautiful tapestry of the right decisions in life. The headlines read, “Disgraced FBI Agent Resigns Amidst Conspiracy Suspicions,” “FBI Agent Has Lovechild from Imprisoned Kingpin.” There were no fewer than ten articles surrounding a picture of the woman they spoke about: Katrina Destiny Hill.
This section of King Reece’s mural was the most important for him. Although it ripped his heart like old stitches every time he looked at his wall, he forced himself to endure the pain just to remind himself to never make that mistake again. She had caught him slipping, warmed up to him, then served him on a cold platter to the federal government. King Reece—the Five Percent God-Body—adjusted his mantra to that of the Jews: never again.
The orthodox Muslims turned toward Mecca and offered their prayers every morning, the Buddhists meditated. For King Reece, this wall was his shrine, the place where he cleansed and replenished his soul every morning. His time inside was nearing its end. He had to prepare himself to reclaim his place in society and right all the wrongs inflicted upon him, beginning with Destiny.
The country had just elected a black man to the Oval Office. Surely, the world was ready for the return of King Reece.
Chapter 1
April 19, 2009
The tinted-out Suburban skated down the gritty Nor
th Carolina street en route to its destination. In back, a man clad in all black checked the rounds in a magazine then slammed it in the butt of his AR-15 assault rifle. Next, he readjusted the infrared beam mounted on the weapon’s barrel and clicked it to make sure it was working. Satisfied that his weapon was ready, he radioed the two Suburbans trailing him. They reported that they were loaded and ready to go as well.
“We ready,” the man said to his driver. The driver gunned the engine, and the heavy SUV rocketed forward.
Moments later, all hell broke loose as three trucks skidded to a halt in front of a duplex. Children across the street watched with mouths agape as man after man exited the trucks in all black carrying big guns. The first two men carried a battering ram, which they slammed into the front door of the duplex without warning, exploding the heavy door off its hinges. As the door crashed into the wall, the men swarmed inside like killer bees with their assault rifles leading the way. They were met with immediate resistance as the first two men to rush through the door were tagged in the chest by heavy gunfire. Their bulletproof vests prevented death, but the impact blew them back through the door for a reluctant retreat.
The army of men behind them regrouped and charged again. This time they were more careful. They rushed through the door and quickly dispatched the resisters with two shots to the chest. Then they cleared the rest of the house in under a minute, pouring into room after room until they were sure the only people inside were their victims lying on the floor gasping for breath.
The leader of the federal assault team stood over one of the men and aimed the barrel of the rifle at his melon. “Just tell us where he’s at, and you can go,” he said calmly. Meanwhile, the other men posted up at the windows of the home with their weapons ready.
“You wasting time, man. You gonna bleed out. Come on, what’s it gonna be?” he prodded. “You gonna tell us or what? We know he was here earlier. Right here in this very damn house! Now you tell us, or we gonna toss this muthafuckin’ house up while you bleed to death.”
The federal agents had invaded this town on a tip. They had good reason to believe that the number one man on their Most Wanted list had just been in this very house moments ago. They had been pursuing him for nearly half a decade, and they were finally closing in on him. They refused to let him escape this time.
“What’s it gonna be?” the agent asked one last time.
For a response, the man simply held out his left hand. “Listen good, because these will be the last words you hear,” the man named Muhammad began. “There is nothing you can do to me that would make me feel worse than betraying my leader.” He opened his hand to reveal a grenade.
The masked man’s eyes fell on the grenade. “Whoa . . . wait a minute. Calm down,” he pleaded after seeing the explosive. “Put that thing away now. Close your hand back over it real slow,” he instructed, backing away. He removed his mask to reveal a pale face and striking blond hair. “We can work this out, Muhammad. Nobody has to die. All we want is your leader.”
Muhammad chuckled and completely opened his left hand, revealing a full view of the grenade. Both safeties were already removed, and when he opened his hand, the spoon popped off. He looked the blond-haired leader of the assault team in his eyes and barked, “Death before dishonor! Crescent Crew to the death!” Then he tossed the grenade into the air.
The men tried to escape, but it was too late. In three seconds flat, the house exploded, taking everyone, including Muhammad, with it.
Down the street, in the woods, a lone man observed the explosion with a demented smile.
Chapter 2
The Wahid Compound was crowded with people. Visitors from all over the nation and abroad populated all three houses located on the grounds of the Wahid Compound. They had all come to welcome home a special person. A person who was dear to everyone present in one way or another at one time or another.
Qwess anxiously awaited the arrival of the guest of honor. It had been a long time coming. Four years, to be exact, since he had begun putting plans in motion to bring the guest of honor home. Now all his striving was finally coming to fruition.
Qwess walked from his house to his sister Fatimah’s house, then to his mother’s house, making sure everything was perfect. All kinds of foods were being served, a DJ was spinning records, and a live band was on hand to play some of the guest of honor’s favorite songs.
It was mid-May, and the sweltering Carolina heat had the majority of the guests huddling by the side of the Olympic-size swimming pool located in the middle of the three houses. As Qwess made his rounds he saw various people whom he had personally invited to this little shindig. As he passed through Fatimah’s house a second time, he saw just the brother he needed to speak with: his brother-in-law Raheem. He had been searching for him all afternoon, and he’d finally stumbled upon him. Qwess slipped into the room and gently pushed the door closed behind him.
“As-salaam alaykum! You just the man I need to see,” Qwess said.
“Wa alaykum salaam. What’s up, Qwess?”
“I need to holla at you about something,” Qwess said.
“What’s on your brain, brother?” Raheem asked, although he already assumed where the conversation was going.
Qwess sat on the bed and weighed his words carefully before he spoke. “Listen, I spoke to Fatimah. She told me what happened.”
“And?”
“And,” Qwess replied. He stood to look in the mirror beside Raheem where he was getting dressed. “She told me about you coming home late. She told me about the argument y’all had. She told me about finding the lipstick on your collar and the number in your pocket.”
Raheem was visibly embarrassed and more than a little perturbed. He knew Qwess could be about that action, but he also knew Qwess was one to mind his own business. Raheem didn’t know which Qwess was coming at him.
“So, what’s this got to do with you?” Raheem asked.
Qwess allowed himself a chuckle before he answered, “It has everything to do with me,” he said. “Number one, that’s my sister and your wife! Number two, you got kids—four, to be exact—that don’t need to see this kind of shit. And number three . . .” Qwess placed both of his hands on Raheem’s shoulders and squeezed them tight. “You put your hands on her again and I’m going to put mine on you!”
Raheem felt more offended than threatened. “Qwess, you know me better than that, yo. I mean, all couples have problems, but I would never do anything to hurt your sister. I guess I’m just nervous about today.”
Qwess could tell Raheem was truly being sincere, so he relented in his aggression. “Yo, I understand where you coming from, bro. I imagine it could be stressful for you. All I’m saying is, treat your wife right. What kind of man would I be to let somebody just manhandle my sister? You know what I’m saying?”
Raheem nodded.
“Cool. Now stop worrying and come on out. He should be here any minute. In fact, that’s them pulling up now. Come pay your respects.”
“All right, I’ll be out.”
Qwess left Raheem and went to meet the limo that had pulled onto the compound. There was already a crowd surrounding the car, so Qwess fell back and played his part.
His mother emerged from the limo first. She was garbed down in an exquisite gown with matching hijab. She was beaming from ear to ear, for she was extremely happy. Fatimah, and her three boys and one girl, crowded the limo, preventing the other occupant from exiting. Aminah Wahid quickly ushered them out the way and reached inside to give the last occupant a hand. Seconds later, Khalid Ali Wahid, the patriarch of the Wahid Clan, emerged from the back of the limo wearing a cream linen suit. He stood to his full six foot, three inches and took in the whole scene before him.
Throngs of people rushed to congratulate him on his freedom. Some people he knew by face, others by name only. Khalid had been gone for almost fifteen years. Most of the people present, he had seen grow up through pictures only.
He hugged his dea
r daughter Fatimah tightly. She had been nineteen years old when he left the streets for his state-sponsored vacation. Now the teenager he had left was a grown woman with a family of her own. Of course, he had seen her on the many visits over the years, but that was in the element created by the government. It was different seeing her in the free cipher, in her element. She had grown to be a beautiful woman. She had also made him a grandfather—four times over.
Khalid bent to hug his grandsons. The two twins and the youngest boy all returned his hug. The youngest child, a two-year-old girl, appeared frightened. She had never seen him in person, only through pictures. She couldn’t accurately discern the difference between a picture and reality; therefore it scared her.
Khalid picked her up and attempted to break the ice. Naturally, she wailed out in terror. Then, suddenly, she became quiet as her gaze extended beyond her grandfather. Khalid hadn’t noticed the little girl’s father walk up until Fatimah introduced him.
“Daddy, this is my husband, Raheem,” Fatimah said. Khalid passed the baby off to Fatimah and issued Raheem a firm handshake. This was their first time meeting.
“Nice to meet you, son,” Khalid offered, pumping Raheem’s hand like a piston. Raheem almost buckled from the grip. Khalid was fifty-three years old, but looked to be only thirty-five, thanks to the regimented workout he had accustomed himself to while in the federal penitentiary. He looked thirty-five but had the strength of a man ten years younger than that.
“Nice to meet you, sir. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you,” Raheem offered, forgetting his Muslim etiquette. Khalid was Muslim in theory, as was Raheem, which would make the proper greeting As-salaam alaykum. However, due to Raheem’s nervousness, his etiquette went out the window.
King Reece Page 1
