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After clearing his head in Baltimore, Lamar had set the trap for Slam and his crew. Each of them had a date with death, carefully planned by Lamar Dunken. Slam’s welcome home party was in full swing Sunday night with Lamar, Trap, and Hamma outside, strategically waiting for their conspirator to exit.
The only thing that outshone Amilli, who entered the party richly decorated in a Yves St. Laurent gown, expensive jewels, and red heels was the extravagant ballroom hosting the party. Amilli didn’t get out often, so it had been awhile since she’d saw so many gorgeous black folks in one room. It looked like the casting call for a scene to be shot for a Denzel Washington movie, not a welcome home party for a paroled murderer. The things black people celebrate.
Her date, Gunna, handed her a champagne flute and smiled at her teammate. He donned a rented tuxedo and exorbitant shoes purchased at Nordstrom Department Store. He had one mission: kill Mossberg, to show Slam they meant business. He’d let Slam live tonight, but the message would be clear. Slam would die!
Smiling, their arms interlocked, Amilli and Gunna, walked slowly around the function. “Let’s find our guy,” she said. “Where the hell is he?”
“Don’t worry. He’ll be here any minute. We won’t be able to miss him. He’s balding and still wearing braids,” Gunna said, shaking his head.
“Sad. Yeah, he has to go,” said Amilli, sipping her champagne. “This is good.”
“It should be. It’s Dom Perignon White Gold. Forty thousand dollars a bottle.”
“You two aren’t on a date,” Lamar said, cutting into their conversation through the tiny earpiece transmitters in their ears. They were the size of a pencil eraser, and impossible for anyone to detect.
Gunna laughed and put his arm around her waist, letting his hand curve over the top of her ass. She didn’t move. He said, “I know we’re not on a date. We’re acting like we are, though.” He gave her ass a squeeze. “Ain’t that right?”
“Yup,” she said, and then added, “remember I’m armed, too.” She sipped her champagne. “The art in here is beautiful.”
“You know what’s more beautiful?” asked Lamar. “Mossberg just entered the building looking like for trip to the eighties with them dry ass braids.”
“I got him,” Gunna said. “Party time,” he added, taking his arm from Amilli’s waist. “Excuse me, I gotta go to the powder room.”
“No,” Lamar said through closed teeth. “Hell no, you better not.” His anger dripped into their ears as he forbade Gunna from going to snort cocaine while on the job.
Twenty minutes later, Mossberg was next to Amilli, having worked his way across the marble floor. “Now this is why I always loved a Slam party,” he stated. “He has the sexiest guests.”
“This is a sexy venue,” offered Amilli.
“Oh, changing the subject,” said Mossberg. “You’re clever and too beautiful to be alone.”
“She’s not,” Gunna said, standing between them.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Mossberg asked.
Amilli walked to the exit.
“Yeah, muthafucka,” Gunna said, pulling a shot gun from under his jacket. “A Mossberg just for you,” he said, shooting him three times.
Before he hit the floor, Gunna pointed the gun in the air and yelled for people to get out of his way, running towards the exit. Nearing the exit, a beefy undercover security guard kicked him in the side forcing him to Slam into the wall. He lost his gun, fell to the floor, and heard, “Don’t make another mutha-fuckin-move. You breathe wrong, I’mma bust a cap in your black ass.”