A couple days after Joc and Meat Head’s murder, every nigga from the swamp who knew how to shed blood showed up at Shamoney’s crib in Port St. Lucie and got broke off with exactly what needed to be done.
“V-Money, Var, and Alleycat, y’all three will hit the trap on 3rd Street, while Bruna, Shamoney, and Ham hit the trap on 2nd Street. Me, Lunatic, and T-Gutta, we gonna take the Westbrook trap. I don’t care if a baby is cryin’, take that shit down,” Real directed everyone.
Everyone hung out in the den, where the pool table was stacked with various types of submachine guns and assault rifles.
“We ’bout to make these Zoes respect Martin County thoroughly. Fuck playing with ’em!” Real exclaimed.
“We ain’t stoppin’ ’til our niggas hit dat dirt. And then when they covered, we’ll still gonna bring pressure to these Zoes. Anything that looks like a Zoe, we’ll whack his ass. No hesitation,” Real continued.
Every nigga in the room was attentive and ready to show the Haitians how real shit could get.
“Man, you ain’t gotta worry ’bout Var hesitating,” Var sincerely expressed.
Var stood five eleven and weighed 210 pounds. He was a straight head bussa, who was very humble, and Real knew beyond any doubt that he would be the last nigga to worry about hesitating. Everyone in the room knew how close Var was to Joc.
“Man, we gonna make these crackas’ job hard and bloody,” said Johnny, who was going on another mission while the swamp was being raided.
Johnny and his ace, Su’Rabbit, would be kicking down doors in Stuart.
“Let’s remember, tonight is about our fallen soldiers and, most definitely, for their families. Let’s make this shit hit the world news. Fuck the local news, my niggas!” Real announced, throwing his chromed AK-47 rifle about his head in the air.
“Hell yeah!” everyone shrilled together.
“Then let’s do this shit!” Real exclaimed as he racked his AK-47.
* * *
The havoc that was occurring a mile down the road left Kentucky worried for his boy Real. He had been in lockdown for one week now under an inmate murder investigation. When the detectives, the inspector of the DOC, and the warden had questioned him, Kentucky told them that he had no idea what had happened in his cell out of his presence, and then he remained quiet. He knew that they wouldn’t be able to pin the murders on him without a witness—and that they didn’t have.
Kentucky was sure there were inmates out on the compound ready to give him up, but with Chucky on the compound, no one would dare risk their life. Kentucky had lost a phone and a couple ounces of K2 because his mattress was in a crime lab somewhere being tested for DNA. He regretted not thinking more intelligently.
His cellmate was a resident of Martin County and happened to be from Real’s hood, and he knew Real well. His name was Skeetmeat, and he was receiving the Stuart newspaper every other day. That’s where Kentucky had read the story of the sudden murders in Indiantown a mile down the road from the prison. All Kentucky did was work on his novels while Skeetmeat read his collection of urban novels.
“So, you ready to work out?” Kentucky asked Skeetmeat, who was deeply engrossed in a Terri Woods novel titled Dutch.
Kentucky continued to keep at his daily workout to stay in good shape. He refused to be out of shape when it was time for any split-second opportunity to be taken advantage of. Every day he worked out, he saw it as planning a great escape.
“Yeah, I’ll push with ya. Just let me finish this chapter,” Skeetmeat replied, deeply engrossed in the Terri Woods novel.
“Alright, we’ll push in a couple more minutes,” Kentucky retorted as he stood up from the bottom bunk and began to warm up for the intense workout.
Kentucky walked to the cell door and looked out into the wing and downstairs from the top tier. He caught his homeboy Guru’s skinny ass doing push-ups.
“Guru, yo’ skinny ass still the same size. But I gotta give it to you, yo’ ass be goin’ hard!” Kentucky screamed down to Guru in cell 5 downstairs.
“Stop hatin’ on a nigga! I’ll outdo yo’ phat ass, boy!” Guru shouted back.
“Get the fuck off the door, cell 5!” Lockdown Sgt. Gaskin yelled out to Guru, who was in a cell alone and classified as a troublesome inmate.
“Cracka, fuck you and yo’ door!” Guru spat back at the sergeant.
“You just love getting gassed, huh?” Sgt. Gaskin asked, standing in front of Guru’s cell door, challenging him.
Every inmate in the wing knew that Guru didn’t give a fuck about getting hit with any form of restraint chemicals. He was used to it and loved making a show for other inmates.
“Cracka, you know I don’t see no gas. Bitch, let’s run this shit. I dare you, cracka. Go ahead and open my hatch and watch me eat that shit like candy, cracka!” Guru said to Sgt. Gaskin, who began laughing because he knew that Guru was a gas freak.
“Any other day I’d spray the black off yo’ skinny ass, but today is my Friday, and paperwork is not what I want to do,” Sgt. Gaskin backed down.
“The only color coming off of me is from when yo’ wife sucking my dick until the skin comes off!” Guru said, causing the entire wing to erupt into laughter and the sergeant’s face to turn a rosy red.
“Don’t worry, Tisdale,” Gaskin said, shaking his head, “I’ll have the last laugh come Monday.”
“What you gonna do, go home and grow some dick and balls, cracka?” Guru said, getting another round of laughter out of the inmates on the wing, humiliating Sgt. Gaskins. “Damn, Sergeant! What, you embarrassed now?” Guru continued to verbally abuse Sgt. Gaskin, who walked off further into the wing, trying to catch an inmate on the door with something to lose.
Guru was going home next month on his max out, so there wasn’t shit that Gaskin could do to harm him. A write-up for disrespect would only be a joke. Unfortunately for Sgt. Gaskin, he was unable to find an inmate because they all got off the door to avoid sticking out like a sore thumb. When the sergeant looked up and saw Kentucky on the door, he thought about making an example of him, but he realized that he too had nothing to lose. Kentucky had three life sentences running wild.
What the fuck could I do to Spears? The man has more life than a newborn baby, Sergeant Gaskin thought as he walked back to his officer station.
* * *
Gina cried as she held her adorable seven-pound baby boy, who she had given birth to only hours ago. She named him Patron, after his daddy, despite knowing deep down that there was a strong possibility of the little boy not being Pat’s. But she would never tell him or Shamoney, who she had been sleeping with behind Pat’s back. She was grateful that the baby strongly favored her, and she had yet to see the baby open his eyes to determine whose eyes he had.
“Looks like you robbed me on the genes, baby,” Pat said while looking down at his son, who looked so much like his mother.
“I guess I was on top puttin’ in all the work,” Gina said as she then kissed Pat on his lips.
“I love you, beautiful,” Pat sincerely told his wife, a woman he wouldn’t leave for any other woman in the world, not even his gorgeous mistress, Bellda.
“I love you too, daddy,” Gina retorted as her nurse walked into the room.
“Sorry if I’m interrupting the making of another baby,” Nurse Vanessa said while looking at Pat and Gina engrossed in each other’s moonstruck stares.
Gina and Pat both laughed together at Vanessa’s comment.
“Woman, we have at least six weeks to do that.”
“Girl, who you talking to? That’s what the protocol says, not the mind, heart, and desire to break the protocol,” Vanessa said while taking Gina’s vitals.
Vanessa was a heavy-set pecan-brown woman in her late thirties, as opposed to Gina, who was in her late twenties. She compassionately cared for Gina during her labor, and Gina thoroughly appreciated her kindness. She would see that Vanessa received a phat check for overdoing her duty.
Damn! I got me a handsome little boy. I got to really consider slowing down out here, Pat thought, knowing that he was too deep in the game to consider backing out. Black needed him.
* * *
It was 3:15 a.m., and despite the swamp being on fire with the police roaming, Real and his crew were gratified to see that the swamp was dead. Real circled the block in Westbrook, a small section in the swamp, and parked at the community Boys & Girls Club.
“We gonna take the rest on foot,” Real said as he killed the engine on his SUV, “and come up the back way.”
“What? We gonna come up the canal?” Lunatic asked.
“Yeah!” Real retorted.
“You don’t think ol’ man John is out lurking,” Lunatic asked, concerned about the Jamaican who never came out during the day and lived in complete darkness.
“Shit! If he intervenes in any kind of way, he’ll get it too,” Real said.
“I know that’s right!” T-Gutta added from the backseat.
“Let’s go, my nigga!” Real said as they exited the SUV on foot.
The trio quickly walked to the canal and traveled west, being furtive while holding AK-47s in their hands. Real carried a backpack with four Molotov cocktails inside. The canal led them behind folks’ backyards, which stirred a couple of dogs, which began barking at the creeping trio.
When Real came to the Haitians’ house, he, Lunatic, and T-Gutta leaped over the short gate. Although the house looked deserted with all the inside lights off, Real knew better than to underestimate the eerie darkness.
“Man, this shit looks crazy, dirty,” T-Gutta spoke in a whisper.
The trio hid behind a tool shed, which they used as a shield.
“Yeah, it do! Maybe they’re waiting. What you say, Real?” Lunatic asked in a hushed voice.
“There’s only one way to find out, my nigga!” Real said as he took the backpack off his shoulders, unzipped it, and dug inside to retrieve the Molotov cocktails and a lighter. “Either way it goes down, these Haitians got to get the fuck out of the swamp!” Real said. “Y’all two niggas cover me while I throw them inside.”
Lunatic and T-Gutta both racked their AK-47s in unison and spoke together, “We got you!”
Real meticulously lit one cocktail and then ignited the other with the already burning first one. He swiftly and nimbly ran from behind the tool shed and then hurled the cocktails into a bedroom and den window. All hell broke loose!
Chop! Chop! Chop! Chop!
“Yeah, bitch! Let’s get it!” Real shouted as fire exchanged between the Haitians and his two compadres who were holding him down.
Real ran behind the shed and grabbed his backpack with the last two cocktails, along with his AK-47. The fusillade continued between the Haitians and his two compadres. Real played the Haitians and used the darkness to his advantage by quickly running on the opposite side of the gunfire.
When he made it to the side of the house, he lit one of the cocktails and hurled it into another bedroom. He then ran to the front of the house, where he caught three men trying to creep out a side door. Real took all of them down to their deaths and then lit the last Molotov cocktail and tossed it into the open door. The four-bedroom trap house was raging with flames, and soon the shooting from inside ceased. When three more Haitians attempted to flee out the front door of the fire-engulfed house, Real took them down one by one.
Chop! Chop! Chop! Chop!
He almost turned the AK-47 on T-Gutta and Lunatic when they came running alongside the burning house. From the looks of the home, there couldn’t be a living soul inside unless it was Satan himself. At that conclusion, the trio successfully fled the scene.
* * *
On 3rd and 2nd Streets, the rest of the team had successfully completed their tasks, leaving the trap houses burning and the Haitian men slain. The trap houses were officially gone from the swamp, just as Real had planned.
In East Stuart, true menaces to society Johnny and Su’Rabbit had successfully run into the Haitian trap houses and laid everyone down. Four were dead, while T-Zoe was still breathing. T-Zoe was the driver of the black Mercury and one of Pat’s good hit men. He was also Shamoney’s archenemy and B-Zoe’s codefendant from the night he killed Joc and Meat Head, so he was sure to pay for it.
When T-Zoe saw himself ambushed by the two masked men, he surrendered and gave up all the dope and money.
Su’Rabbit stood five four and weighed two hundred pounds. He was solid, with a dark-brown complexion and a mouthful of golds. He was an old-school nigga and mentor to Johnny, who was old enough to be Su’Rabbit’s son. It was his decision not to kill T-Zoe and to bring him along for Real to deal with, and Su’Rabbit subsequently beat the truth out of him about B-Zoe’s mission. T-Zoe was frightened, and he gave up B-Zoe like a machine returned change for a dollar.
“You want to live, then you better let us know everything we need to know ’bout this nigga named B-Zoe!” Su’Rabbit informed T-Zoe, who was face down and bloody on the kitchen floor from being pistol-whipped by Su’.
“Okay, man, I will!” T-Zoe spoke in a deep Haitian accent.
“Let’s get out of here,” Su’Rabbit said as he vigorously kicked T-Zoe in his temple, knocking him out cold.
Together they tied T-Zoe’s hands behind his back with a phone cord and dragged him to the front door. After putting him in the trunk of the Lincoln town car, Johnny and Su’Rabbit successfully torched the place and then made an inconspicuous escape.
* * *
When detectives Harris and Holmes arrived at the Westbrook scene, after leaving the 2nd and 3rd Street scenes, they were exhausted from their vagrant, nimble thoughts of what the hell was going on. One thing they knew for certain was that someone was seriously going at the Haitians, and they had every means of completely destroying them.
“Lisa, all these homes are where suspected drug activities have occurred as reported by the neighbors, who still have claimed to have seen nothing when questioned. Crazy, huh?” Harris realized.
“I was gonna ask you that, Mark. I think it’s the birth of a turf war. Like, ‘We don’t want the Haitians in our hood no more,’” Holmes stated, gesturing quotations with her fingers and explaining her theory as they looked on at the house still ablaze.
They walked together behind the yellow crime scene tape and inspected the six dead Haitian men underneath shrouds laid side by side on the driveway. They were removed from their original spots for safety purposes and away from the fire.
“They’re definitely Haitians with these rough features,” Holmes exclaimed while looking at the dead Zoes.
“Stuart PD Captain Cummings says the same thing, Lisa,” Holmes retorted as he read an incoming text on his iPhone from the captain.
“Are you serious?” Holmes said in disbelief as she the text stood and read on Harris’s phone from Cummings, who was at another crime scene in East Stuart.
“Damn! This is real crazy, Mark!” Holmes said, just as a crime scene investigator walked up to her and Harris.
“What’s good, Sawyer?” Det. Harris asked the CSI.
He was a young black man in his late twenties, already with the strong potential of becoming a homicide detective.
“Looks like an ambush from the back, cocktails were thrown, and then an exchange of fire. All the victims were nailed, as they had no choice but to run out of the front door.”
“Bang! Bang! Bang!” Sawyer said, shooting an invisible gun toward the front door. “Or burn alive!”
“Sounds reasonable, Sawyer,” Harris retorted, nodding his head in assent.
“What other possible way?” Sawyer added.
“I gotta admit, you’re right, son. I just wish this accuracy could solve the case,” Holmes said.
“It’s a head start at least,” Sawyer suggested.
“Yeah, a son of a bitch head start,” Harris said, and then walked off to further investigate the crime at the crack of dawn.