Twenty-Five

Kamel thought about the special night he had with Kola. He was going to remember it for the rest of his life. She was definitely the one, and he wanted to immediately implement what they’d talked about at the hotel. Retiring from the game and leaving the United States with the kids was a great idea. They thought about going to the Caribbean, or maybe Africa, the Motherland. Escaping away to either place sounded like the perfect getaway. Kamel had a few hundred thousand dollars set aside, fake passports, and other important credentials he would need if shit hit the fan and he had to go on the run. Every criminal needed a way out—an escape plan. Kamel was smart enough to know that nothing lasted forever; too bad his brother didn’t think the same way.

Forces out there were trying to prevent him from living happily ever after with his fiancée and the kids. One new threat was Marko and his thugs. Word on the streets was the KB Bloods were at war with the twins—shoot and kill on sight. This put Kamel’s family at risk.

He contacted his brother and told him about his run-in with Marko.

Jamel’s reply was, “You already know, bro—he a killer like you and me. Either you make him go away, or he gonna try and make us go away. PJ was loved and respected. They ain’t gonna never forget.”

Kamel knew his brother was right. So the two hatched a plan to strike first. Jamel was ready to kill Marko on sight, but Kamel wanted the hit to be more calculated and less dramatic. They already had enough to deal with and didn’t need any backlash.

Kamel pulled up to his apartment building in Williamsburg. He left the rented Chevy idling. Clad in all black, wearing a pullover hoodie and combat boots, he smoked his cigarette and waited for his brother to show up. The 9 mm he carried was clean; serial numbers scratched off. After the job he planned on disposing of the gun. It’d been a moment since he’d gotten his hands dirty like this, but he didn’t trust anyone else to do it.

Jamel exited the building coolly and approached the car. He got in the passenger seat smiling at his brother. He gave him dap and was ready to get the party started. Jamel was a fanatic when it came to shit like this.

“You ready to do this?” Jamel asked.

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

“Let’s end this nigga,” Jamel said excitedly.

Kamel looked at his brother and the feeling that he was responsible for PJ’s demise was still there. Every bone in his body knew the truth. Jamel had been lying to him. The past three months had been nothing but bloodshed from his end. He was going insane. Eight homicides in the city were linked back to Jamel, but the cops couldn’t charge him with anything, since there was no evidence or witnesses to indict him on.

Before Kamel pulled off to handle their business, he set his eyes on his brother and said, “What the fuck is wrong with you? You know that everything you do has consequences? Your name is ringing out here too much, nigga, and you’re pissing a lot of people off.”

“Fuck them! They pissing me off!” Jamel retorted.

“What is your end game with this, Jamel?”

“Nigga, I got a plan. Trust me.”

Kamel shot back, “Trust you? You gonna get all of us killed.”

“With what I got planned, we gonna wear the crowns soon and be the kings of New York.”

Kamel didn’t care to wear any crown or become the king of anything. The only thing he wanted to do was love his woman, start his own legal business, and live happy someplace far away from New York.

“Fuck the crown and fuck this life!” Kamel said.

“You’re changing on me, bro. Is it her? Kola? Fuckin’ ya head up with foolishness? I remember when we had dreams to run this city. You remember, you and me being bosses? Untouchable?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Kamel replied dryly. “But people and things change.”

“Change, huh? Now you wanna switch up on your only family, especially now. I do have an end game, bro.” Jamel lit a cigarette and took a few drags. “I got something special lined up. I linked up with these Armenians—”

“Armenians?” Kamel questioned with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, Armenians, and I set up a sweet deal with them. We needed a new connect. I found one. Only one problem. They want a million-dollar buy in.”

“A million?”

“Yeah, nigga, a fuckin’ million. These niggas don’t come cheap, and they’re ready to supply us with some high-quality shit. The problem, these muthafuckas don’t trust or like niggas like that, so they want their money up front. I start a business relationship with them, and we on our way to becoming major suppliers in this fuckin’ city. So I’m doin’ whatever it takes to get this money up.”

The plan sounded asinine to Kamel. No one pays 100% before delivery of product. He didn’t want any dealings with them. Jamel was becoming a megalomaniac—he was ready to kill his way to the top. They were going down very different paths.

Kamel didn’t want to hear any more about it. He knew there was no changing Jamel’s mind. Jamel’s arrangement with the Armenians looked like it would fall apart like a building collapsing, and the outcome would probably be dust and smoke, many dead.

He put the Chevy in drive and drove away.

An hour later, they watched Marko socialize with his crew and some ladies on the Brooklyn corner. Everyone was drinking and laughing, enjoying the night. The brothers watched Marko’s every movement from half a block away. They were waiting for the right time to strike.

“Did you do it?” Kamel asked his brother out of the blue.

“Do what?”

“Did you kill PJ? Be honest with me.”

“For Christ sake, I told you I didn’t touch that nigga. How many times you gonna ask me?”

“Don’t get all worked up. I was just asking.”

“Don’t fuckin’ ask again, Twin. You starting to piss me off.”

Jamel continued smoking. He was itching to kill Marko. He never liked the asshole. Marko always thought he was the big bad wolf, because he ran a violent Blood crew. Jamel was ready to show him who the baddest wolf in the city was.

Silence fell between the brothers inside the car. Cigarette smoke filled the air.

Kamel wanted to be patient, but Jamel couldn’t wait. He toyed with the Glock and fixed his eyes on the men lingering on the corner. They all were high and tipsy, losing focus, not staying alert, thinking no one was crazy enough to attack them.

“Look at them, fuckin’ idiots,” Jamel said. “It’s too fuckin’ easy right now.” He took his gun and dry-fired at all his victims. “Boom! Boom! One at a time, and problem solved. No more Marko.” He laughed.

“Just Marko.”

“So you callin’ the shots, huh?”

“I just wanna do it right.”

“Yeah, I do too,” Jamel said.

Ten minutes went by, the brothers still sat and waited. Fewer men were now on the corner. Marko downed a forty and held court. Four men to deal with.

“Fuck this!” Jamel uttered, suddenly leaping from the vehicle with the Glock in his hand.

“Jamel, what the fuck! Not now!”

His brother refused to listen.

Jamel hurried toward the crowd, ready to execute everyone standing around Marko. Kamel didn’t have a choice but to follow behind him. The brothers were in the dark, hoods concealing their identities.

Jamel fired first, his gun exploding into the night.

Kamel outstretched his hand and fired away too.

Marko went down first from a bullet slamming into his chest.

Panic quickly ensued. Marko’s men tried to scatter, but all three were gunned down by the twins. When the smoke cleared, four lay dead.

They retreated back to the Chevy.

Kamel went berserk. “Nigga, I told you to fuckin’ wait! You put my life at risk with your fuckin’ ignorance.”

“Nigga, fuck waiting! I saw a chance, and I went after it. That’s what I do—problem solved!”

Each day, Kamel felt his brother was becoming more insane and harder to manage.