43

When YB and Shelly arrived on Brown Street, he knew something was wrong. Cops flooded the area and a helicopter hovered over the neighborhood to film everything from a bird’s eye view. It was like a scene from a movie.

YB rushed out the car and went the house on Brown Street, where everyone had already heard the news about Rufus. When Rufus’s crew saw YB approaching them, they were all taken aback.

“Oh shit, nigga! You back?” Ray-Lo asked.

Ignoring the question and having one of his own, YB asked Ray-Lo, “Yo, what the fuck happened?”

Ray-Lo’s face became curled with anger. He looked away from YB for a quick moment, hating to break the bad news about his cousin.

“Muthafucka, answer me! Where’s Rufus?” YB glared at Ray-Lo.

“He dead, man, a few blocks down near Wallace Street. It ain’t pretty, YB. Niggas did him dirty,” Ray-Lo informed.

Hearing the news made YB even more furious. He lowered his head in grief. Everyone he knew and loved was already wiped out by Harlem.

Without saying a word to anyone else, he rushed back to the car and got in on the driver’s side. Shelly scooted over to the passenger side with a sad gaze.

“Where you goin’?” Shelly asked.

“To see what’s up,” he replied and peeled out.

Within moments, YB pulled up near Wallace Street, where the block was swamped with police activity. Yellow police tape outlined the horrifying crime scene, with dozens of cops investigating the area and combing it for evidence or any DNA that may have been left behind.

The media had their cameras rolling. Reporters had their microphones, pens and notepads out, asking questions to any available officer about the victims and the crime. It was a zoo.

YB got out of the car and got as close as he could. The looky-loos were out, talking among themselves and speculating about what went down. The name “Harlem” floated around but no one dared speak out the name openly—especially to police.

YB stared at the scene. Shelly stood behind him, tense with fear. He saw the Benz that had slammed into the Escalade and about four bodies sprawled out on Mantua Avenue. Bloody sheets covered their remains.

It was a hectic sight, but no one could look away as they were all stunned at the tragic event that took place only a few hours ago.

“Damn, I’m so sorry, YB,” Shelly said in consolation.

“He’s a fuckin’ dead man,” was the only thing YB could say. He couldn’t look anymore. His cousin was already dead so there was no use for him to see the body on the ground. They got back into the car where YB sat for a moment to think about things.

“I need to take your car,” YB said.

“I’m ready, let’s go,” she replied.

“Alone. I’ll pay you for your troubles.”

“YB, you’re upset now and you don’t need to be alone. I can help you,” Shelly said with concern.

“This ain’t got shit to do wit’ you, Shelly. It’s my beef, and it’s gonna get really ugly. So I just need you to step off and let me handle this shit!”

Shelly sighed. She was reluctant to give him her car in order to chase a killer and maybe end up getting himself killed. She had known YB since they were young and knew how stubborn he could be. There would be no talking him out of it; with his family dead, she knew that he was on the borderline of insanity.

YB reached into his pocket and handed Shelly a wad of cash.

“That’s ten thousand right here, more than enough for your car.”

Shelly took the cash and stared at YB with a look of apprehension. She sighed again and said, “You be careful, YB. I know you’re upset, but just think about—”

“Just get out,” he ordered.

Shelly looked at YB one last time. She wanted to hug and kiss him and make things better for him. He was a thug who ran with the most notorious of gangsters, though, and she knew that his way of handling a situation was murder.

YB had the Maxima in drive when Shelly slowly stepped out with $10,000 clutched in her hand. Without so much as a goodbye, YB sped off in the opposite direction, leaving her stranded a few miles away from her home.

YB went back to Brown Street, looking for Ray-Lo. People got out of his way as he rushed into the unfurnished, dilapidated stash house. “Where Ray-Lo at?” he asked a young man.

“He in the back,” the teen, no older than fifteen, replied.

YB went to the back with his mind trained on two things: revenge and murder.

Ray-Lo was a lieutenant in the organization who YB trusted to have his back on the streets. He did seven years for a drug charge and assault with a deadly weapon and came home just around time when Rufus and YB were moving H in the streets. Ray-Lo was a ride-or-die type of guy who stood only 5’9” and weighed 160 pounds, but he had the heart of a giant and the skills of a killer.

With Rufus dead and YB off in New York—so everyone thought—Ray-Lo was next in line to run the shop in West Philly. But with YB back in town, Ray-Lo was cool with being second in charge, even though he was older than Rufus and YB by five years.

As YB rushed into the supply room, he thought it was stupid for Rufus to re-open the stash house on Brown Street after the murders on the block by Harlem; but that problem was the least on his mind.

YB entered the room to see a half-dozen teenage girls packaging the H for street distribution by stamping “Devil’s Play” on the glassine envelopes that flooded the production table. They were in their underwear and were focused on the product, while Ray-Lo talked on his cell phone a short distance away.

He turned to see YB in the room and said to the caller, “Yo, let me call you back. Somethin’ important came up.”

He hung up his call and approached YB with an uneasy stare. “Yo, YB! Nigga, you know I’m down for whatever. Rufus was like family to me. You know who did it? Probably those niggas from Diamond Avenue, still beefing over Shyfe Lyfe gettin’ killed over here a while back.”

“Nigga, I know who’s responsible,” YB said.

“Who, nigga?” Ray-Lo was eager to know.

“Harlem.”

“That nigga? I’m tired of hearing ’bout this faggot-ass nigga! You think he got to Rufus like that? One man?”

“I need guns,” YB said.

Ray-Lo smiled. “So we on the hunt now? A’ight, you know I’m down, my nigga.”

YB nodded and they both gave each other dap and then embraced in a manly hug. The team was dying out and both men knew that they only had each other left. Ray-Lo was tired of hearing about Harlem having Philly locked down with fear. He wanted his reputation to ring out like that and he knew that taking out Harlem—one of the most notorious killers in Philly—would definitely step his reputation up in the streets.

For YB, it was more personal than having a reputation in the streets. Harlem murdered his cousin, his mentor, and did his mom dirty with nine shots to the head. A man like that had to be put under, even if meant sending himself to the grave.

What worried YB was if Harlem could get close to his mom like that then there was no telling what other information he had on his personal life. Then he thought about Danielle and her being alone in New York. It made sense for Harlem to track his shorty down in NY for revenge—but to do that, he would need to find someone who may have known where she was.

He and Ray-Lo packed some guns in the trunk of the car and raced off toward Delaware, with YB praying that they’d make it in time.