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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in review.
First Edition May 2015
Printed in the United States of America
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Email: Trnayadams@gmail.com
Facebook: Tranay Adams
Cover design and layout by: Sunny Giovanni
Book interior design by: Shawn Walker
Edited by: Tumika Cain
Chapter One
Wicked sat a worn brown leather bag down on a table against the wall that looked like it was made to carry a bowling ball. With latex-gloved hands, he unzipped the bag and began pulling out shiny silver tools that were made specifically for torture. One by one, he laid the tools on the old, rusty iron tabletop until he drew the last. Snikt! He turned around to Te’Qui, smiling devilishly. The illumination from the dim light bulb in the ceiling pounced off of the Instrument of Death and a glare swept up its length.
Te’Qui’s ten-year-old eyes bulged and his mouth hung open. His heart raged inside of his chest, showing its impression on his left peck as it beat out of control. His head snapped from left to right. At this moment, he was wondering how the hell slinging a little crack to cop some chains for him and his best friend had left his right hand dead and his older brother ready to torture him because he wouldn’t give up the cat that gave them the drugs. If he could go back and change the past couple of weeks he would, but unfortunately he couldn’t, so he was left to deal with this mad man and his aunt.
Helen dropped the spent beer can at her feet, crushed it with her flat and kicked it aside. Wicked advanced in his direction with the tool in his hand and evil thoughts on his mind. With nothing to lose, Te’Qui decided to make a run for it. He made a mad dash for the steps, but something caught him while in motion. Suddenly propelled up into the air, he came down hard on his face, busting and bloodying his mouth. Licking his lips and swallowing, he tasted metal. His eyelids opened just in time to see his red tooth tumbling up. He felt around inside his mouth and came across the space between his teeth. When he looked to his fingers they were stained with blood.
He looked to his ankle and saw that it had been shackled to the wall. He’d been much too panicked to notice before. When he looked up, Wicked and Helen were approaching him, laughing like a couple of crazed maniacs.
Te’Qui squeezed his eyelids closed and mouthed a prayer to himself, hoping that God Almighty would pull his black ass out of this one.
“The Lord can’t save you, lil’ homie. Only you can,” Wicked spoke honestly. “You either tell me who this cat is that gave you and bro bro that work, or I’m gonna make sure you get acquainted with each and every tool in that there bag behind me, ya dig?”
Te’Qui closed his eyes as he swallowed hard. He peeled them back open and stared up at his enemy with defiant eyes.
“Yeah, I dig and I still ain’t telling you shit! Suck my dick!” He threw up both middle fingers, letting them linger.
Te’Qui was pissed off at Wicked for threatening to bring harm to him for not dropping dime on who it was that gave him and his brother the crack to sell, being that he was against snitching. In fact, Wicked was one of the main niggaz that drilled into his head that telling wasn’t an option, under any circumstances. Te’Qui couldn’t believe it. For as long as the maniac gang-banger had known him, he was about to slaughter him like a pig for not submitting to him.
Ain’t this about a bitch? The young nigga thought, feeling flabbergasted. Before I eat the cheese, they’ll be bury me a g.
“Oh, I’m gonna love this,” Wicked stated with a fiendish smile. Kicking the youngster in the chin, he knocked him unconscious then pressed his sneaker against the little dude’s chest, moving to perform surgery with the shiny instrument. He stopped himself short when his cell phone rang, intending to ignored it, but something told him that he should see who it was. Withdrawing his cellular, he flipped it open and glanced at the screen. His brows furrowed seeing the name, but he knew he’d best answer the call. Placing the device to his ear, he answered.
“What’s brackin’?” His eyes wandered as he listened to what he was being told. He was hot as a firecracker, being that the call had interrupted him right when he was about to lay his torture game down on Te’Qui. “I’m in the middle of something right now. Let me wrap this up and...” He was cut short from the earful he received. “I know, I know, I know...” He blew hot air, feeling cheated, because he knew that the plans that he had for Te’Qui would have to wait until later. The call he had gotten was a very important one and the situation had to be addressed pronto. “I’ll be there, two hunnit.” He disconnected the call and slipped the cell into his pocket. “You one lucky lil’ nigga, you know that?”
“Who was that?” His Aunt Helen frowned.
Ignoring her question, he simply said, “I got some business I gotta tend to.” He sat the tool into the worn leather bag. “You babysit our friend here until I get back, alright?” He zipped the bag up and turned to her, pulling a compact handgun from the small of his back.
“Alright.” She nodded and took the gun.
“Good.” He hugged her affectionately and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Wicked headed back up the staircase, leaving his aunt alone with Te’Qui. She planted a chair down before him and leaned forward, allowing the handgun to dangle between her legs as she watched him attentively.
***
Wicked hopped behind the wheel of his BMW and tucked his banger underneath the driver seat. After firing up the sexy machine and adjusting the rearview mirror, he pulled off, cranking up the volume on Dr. Dre’s Bang Bang from The Chronic 2001.
Everyday it's the same thing,
L.A. ain't changed
Niggas still player hating,
but Dre ain't changed
I'm just a lot smarter now
‘Cause these niggas is banging ten times harder now
Niggas bringing they ass up in the wrong part of town
Better turn they car around
Rollin’ the window down (hey, can we talk it out?
Nah get the fuck out!)
Johnny got a shotgun
And he ain't even strong enough to cock one
Fuck tryin’ to job hunt.
Wicked stared ahead watching the street and taking swigs from his flask. Face solemn, deadpan look in his eyes. The night’s cool air blew in through the cracked open windows, disturbing the loose strands of hair sticking out of his cornrows, while the illumination of light posts flickered on and off his face as he drove the dark city streets. Taking a swallow of the dark liquor, his mind wandered back to the day he became indebted to one of the most ruthless Jamaicans Kingston had ever spawned.
Wicked disrobed and entered the shower in flip-flops. The room was humid and foggy. He stared straight ahead, but he could see all of the men surrounding him. Each of them were occupied, lathering themselves with soap, washing shampoo from out of their hair, or heading back into the locker room to dry off and dress. The inmates were minding their own business and paying him no mind. Seeing this, Wicked turned his back against the spray of the showerhead. When the hot liquid hit his head, it laid his hair down and coated his body. He made sure to keep an eye open while he lathered up. By no means was Wicked a stranger to prison, every time he went in, he left with a new set of enemies. He robbed, cheated, stole, and opened niggaz up with razors. He never knew when his dirt would come back to haunt him, so he had to grow an extra pair of eyes in the back of his head.
The hot water that poured over Wicked’s form soothed and relaxed him, freeing him of his tension. It felt damn good. So good that he closed his eyes and soaked in that moment. That one moment was all it took for some shit to jump off. Wicked’s eyelids snapped open hearing hurried flip-flopped feet slapping against the wet tile. He looked from left to right, identifying the four men closing in on him. He knew he had to react fast or that was going to be his ass.
“Ah, niggaz wanna pack me, Blood?”
Crack! Bwap! Pwap!
Wicked dropped one of the opposing men with ease and followed up with the next. He chopped him in his throat, causing him to gag then grabbed him by the back of his neck. With a grunt, he swung him into the white tiled wall. Thunk! He busted his nose and mouth, falling to the floor and leaving a smear of red behind. Wicked went to turn around and met with a solid right to the chin. His head slammed up against the wall and he fell to his palms and knees. He went to get up, but a kick in the ribs brought him back down on all fours. Before he knew it, he was swarmed. His body and head got real acquainted with fists and bare feet. The men assaulted him until they were left with flaring nostrils and heaving chests.
“Hold his ass, hold ‘em right there!” The baldheaded convict gave the order, dropping the lock into a sock, causing it to go slack. He grasped the opposite end of it and spun it around rapidly, twisting it up, setting the lock in place. “So, you like raping lil’ girls, huh, mothafucka? Alright.”
His eyebrows arched and his nose scrunched up, lips peeling back in a sneer. He threw his hand back, grunting and swinging the sock across his face. Crack! Thwhack! Bwap! Whack! The assault split open Wicked’s forehead and right cheek, red webbing his eye. His nose fractured and burgundy blood flushed from his nasal cavity, tatting up the tiled floor and washing down the drain. His eyes were hooded and his vision was blurry. He moaned. His head throbbed like he had the worst migraine and his broken jaw was aching.
“Big brudda!” The voice rang from the doorway.
The bald con and his henchmen’s heads snapped in the direction from which the voice came. They found a tall, skinny man with keloids and burns on his bony chest. His hair was a crop of wild dreads that were long and thick. They looked bigger than his head and heavier than his body. Standing on both sides of him were three Rastas. They were sporting shorter dreads, nappy heads, and fades. They wore menacing expressions and looked like they’d kill on their leader’s command, like a couple of trained attack dogs. Beyond them were two C.O.’s masking the door so no one would be able to get out of the shower room unless they permitted it.
“Let da mon go now, he’s takin’ ‘nuff of a beatin.’” The dread spoke with an easy Jamaican drawl.
“What? You betta raise yo punk ass up from outta here!” Baldhead frowned, looking him up and down.
“Me dunt ‘spect nuttin’ fa free, I’m willin’ ta buy da man’s debt from ya.”
Baldhead’s forehead wrinkled and he exchanged glances with his men. Turning back to the dread, he said, “Are you fuckin’ serious?”
“As cansah.”
“Nuh uh.” He shook his head, “Ain’t ‘bout the money, this cock sucka...” He grabbed a fist full of Wicked’s thick, nappy hair and pulled his head back. His eyes were peeled to their whites and he was groaning in pain. He was in bad shape. “...likes sticking his grown ass dick in lil’ babies, the slimy mothafucka that he is.”
“Me know of da man’s sins and me have bigga plans fa him.”
“Like what?”
“Dat’s no business of yours, and I’m growin’ impatient wit’ ya chit chat.”
“Nigga, fuck you!” He scrunched his face up, looking at him like ‘who in the fuck do you think you are?’
“Right.” With that said, the dread and his men drew shanks from the waistlines of their towels. The blades were long and thick, looking like they’d cause major damage no matter what part of the human body they hit. “Here’s the deal, Mr. Big Shot...” He twisted the knife in his long dirty fingernail as he talked. “I’m gonna give ya ten boxes of cigarettes of ya choosin’ and ya gon’ take ‘em or ya gon’ take deez knives up ya ass.” His eyebrows slanted downward and he clenched his teeth hard, creating wrinkles around his gruffly face. “The decision is yours, batty bwoi! Choose wisely.”
The baldheaded convict looked from the shanks the dreads were wielding to the weapons of his henchmen. They had two blades between them. If they bucked against the rude boys there wasn’t any doubt in his mind that they’d be lying sprawled about on the wet floor of the shower room with their blood spiraling down the drain. He wanted to say fuck it and lock ass with the Rastas, but being the wise leader that he was, he couldn’t jeopardize the lives of his men over his foolish pride.
“Alright,” he submitted. “You can take this piece of shit.” He looked to his men that were holding Wicked up. “Let ‘em go.” They released him and he went face first, busting and bloodying his mouth, too weakened from the beating to hold himself up. The spray of the showerhead pelted his head and washed the blood from his bleeding wounds, sending it down the drain. His eyes were no more than slits as he continued his groans of pain.
Baldhead pointed a crooked and calloused finger at the dreads’ leader. “But I want my ten boxes of Newports, tomorrow afternoon, soon as chow is over.” He spoke with hostility trying to save face, knowing damn well that the opposition would have left him, and all of his crew, leaking something awful.
The dread nodded and said, “Ya got it, Mr. Big Shot, tomorrow afternoon.” He turned to the C.O.’s that were watching the door for him. “Gentlemen, would ya be so kind as ta let these fine men through?” The correctional officers stepped from out of the doorway, allowing the men to exit.
Once baldhead and his men had made their departure, the dread kneeled down to Wicked, tapping his shoulder until he was sure that he had his attention. The battered man’s eyes shifted to him and he kept right along groaning.
“Ya a proud mon, so I know ya won’t wanna go into PC fa fear of lookin’ like a sissy bwoi,” he began. “Ya want ta stay in Gen Pop? Alright, ya eat and play dee yard wit’ me and mine.”
“Uuuhhhhh!” Wicked groaned in agony, he wanted to buck, but his pain left his mouth paralyzed.
“Exactly,” he continued. “Anotha ting, I jus’ bought ya ass, ya belong ta me now, ya my bitch. Ya debt is paid when I say so and notta time earlier. I’ll see ya later, Sleepin’ Beauty.” He rose to his feet and stomped his head, leaving him in darkness. Wicked wouldn’t wake up until sometime later the next day. From that day forth he ate and played the yard with the Jamaicans. They protected him from the other inmates looking to tax his ass for the girl that he had raped. The dread got his walking papers a year before he got his. He figured that he must have been keeping tabs on him, because he had someone get into contact with him shortly after he left prison.
Wicked killed his vehicle and took another swig from the flask before screwing the cap back on it.
Wicked wasn’t feeling being in Roots presence again, especially after what had happened. He had it in mind to lay the Kingston gangsta down, but had second thoughts. Giving homie that eternal sleep would definitely bring out some of the most ruthless criminals from his motherland. Now, by no means was Wicked afraid of these men, but he was far from stupid. His lone gun would be no match for all of theirs. So he had no choice but to push that suicide mission to the back of his mental.
He slid it into his back pocket and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he peered out through the driver side window. Across the street there was an old white house with a rusting metal fence and a dirt patch lawn. He wasn’t sure that it was the place that he was looking for, so he checked the text message the caller had sent him with the address on the front of the house. Seeing that it was the home he was told to meet the caller, he stashed his cell in his pocket and slid his banger from beneath the driver seat. He tucked it on his waistline as he hopped out of the car and slammed the door behind him. He was about to jog across the street until a pickup truck sped past him, holding him up. Wicked looked up and down the block before hurriedly making his way across the street and into the yard of the white house.
He came upon the steps and froze where he was when he found a cat sitting on a chair facing him. The shade of darkness hid the man’s features, but Wicked did make out his auburn dreadlocks and the automatic shotgun in his gloved hands. That mothafucka was trained on him, so if he tried to run then a hot one was going to swallow his back before he cleared the yard. Wicked made sure not to make any sudden movements. The last thing he wanted to do was to get murdered before he was able to exact his revenge.
“Raise ya hans real slow like.” The man with the auburn locks spoke with authority.
“Punk ass mothafucka,” Wicked said under his breath, doing as he was ordered. Being naturally rebellious, he hated being told what to do, but he wasn’t a fool. The dread had a shotgun on him. Approaching cautiously, the Rasta recovered the steel on his waistline and a little pistol in a holster strapped to his ankle. Next, he stashed the guns on his person. He kept his shotgun on him as he leaned forward and pounded on the door with his fist. Someone shouted something to him in his native tongue and his shouted back, before opening the black iron door. He motioned toward the entrance by throwing his head to it and gesturing with his weapon. Wicked lowered his hands and crossed the threshold. As soon as he did, he was smacked in the face with the repugnant odor of some very potent weed. He narrowed his eyes, trying to peer through the fog ahead of him. His head snapped over his shoulders, hearing the door click shut behind him. He looked back ahead and made his way across the foyer and down the corridor, taking in the blaring noise that was Bob Marley’s I Shot the Sheriff.
Wicked closed his eyes further and coughed, bringing a fist to his mouth. The weed was stronger than the hind legs of a donkey and smelled like diarrhea that had been heated up in the microwave. Stopping at the doorway of the den, he saw three Jamaicans sitting at a table wearing latex gloves. They bagged and chopped up work. Every so often they’d stop to indulge the biggest joint that he’d ever seen in his life. They laughed and talked shit amongst each other, carrying on like he wasn’t even there. Or so he thought.
“Wiiickeeedd.” The dread that had saved his ass back in prison greeted, with weed slanted eyes. A jovial expression was scrolled across his face as he passed the joint to the cat at his right. “Come heah.” He motioned him over and rose to his feet, pulling the latex gloves from his bony hands. He scratched his gruffly cheek and embraced his guest with a hug that surprised him. He was always snickering and joyful when he was high. A far cry from the cutthroat dread he exhibited back in the joint.
“What’s up with it? What chu need?” Wicked gave him a funny look.
“I needa tock.”
“Talk?”
“Yeah, tock.” He threw his arm around his shoulders and ushered him toward the bedroom. “Right dis way, ma friend.”
Wicked’s eyes latched on to the Jamaicans at the table as he was escorted toward the bedroom. They turned around in their chairs letting their eyes linger on him until he’d passed them. Their looks made him queasy and his stomach did somersaults. If the dread had his demise in mind then he was a mothafucking fool if he thought he was going down without a fight. Homeboy at the door may have relieved him of his guns, but he still had a box cutter wedged in his right sneaker. If the dread made the wrong move then that was his ass.
“Step into my office.” Roots opened the door to a bedroom. He closed the door behind them when he entered. Wicked took in the bedroom as the dread locked the door. The space was fairly empty, save for the bed and the nightstand. When the Rasta turned around, he made sure to keep a close eye on his hands. He followed him over to the bed where they found a manila envelope. He opened the envelope and pulled out three photographs, passing them to him.
Wicked went through the photographs, feeling relieved that the Jamaican didn’t try anything. Two of the photos were of a very tall and handsome dark-skinned man, while the last one was of him, a newborn baby and an attractive woman that looked like she may have been from Belize.
Wicked’s brows furrowed and he looked up at the Rasta like ‘Fuck you want me to do with these?’
“Me want his fuckin’ head on a platta.” He eyes darkened and he scrunched his nose.
“This ain’t ‘bout shit. My murda game stay on point, Roots.”
“Me know, me know.” He patted his shoulder. “Ya skills wit dee gun is one of da reasons why me enlisted ya. I knew a mon wit’ ya talents would be very useful ta my buddin’ organization.”
Wicked nodded his understanding. “So, if I do this for you, we square?”
“Yes. And just ta show ya dat it’s not all dat bad wockin’ fa me, I brought cha a gift.” He pulled a joint from his shirt pocket and passed it to him. Wicked slid it beneath his nose, inhaling the loud aroma. A smile curled his lips.
“This that shit,” he claimed. “You got this from the Motherland?”
“Yep, Jamaica, me home.”
“Good looking out.” He slapped hands with him.
“No problem. Me got somethin’ else fa ya. Follow me.” He opened the door and led him out into the living room, stopping at the basement door. After flipping on a switch, he unchained and unlocked the door. He stuck his hand out toward the doorway and nodded, signaling for him to go first. Wicked went on inside of the basement with Roots following closely behind, pulling the door shut.
The old wooden steps squeaked as Wicked descended them. He ran face first into a spider’s web causing him to narrow his eyes and shake his head. He spat the web out that got in his mouth and pulled it loose from his face, letting it fall to the steps. Feeling something crawling up the back of his neck, he smacked it and took a gander at his palm. There wasn’t anything there.
“Fucking spiders and shit, Blood, you needa getta exterminator.” He glanced back at Roots and he was wearing a solemn expression. He went on down the staircase.
Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof!
He heard barking the further he got down the staircase. He looked to the left and saw a couple of Rottweilers standing around a naked, battered man who was tied to a rusting iron chair. His head was hung and he was shaking like one of those bitches on the pole at Magic City. His legs were chewed up and bloody and there was a puddle of piss between his bare, dirty feet.
Hearing the squeaking of the steps as the men descended them, the beasts snapped around and charged forth, barking. Wicked stopped where he was and instinctively went for the head bussa on his waistline, forgetting that it wasn’t there. “Aww, shit!” He took a step back from the dogs, retreating from them.
“Say, Roots, you needa call off these mothafucking hounds!”
“Right.” Roots rattled off some shit in his native language and the vicious animals dispersed. They went from angry beasts to a couple of fucking puppies. Wicked was surprised.
“Who is this?” He looked to the Jamaican and pointed a crooked finger to homeboy in the chair.
“Ya present.” The Rasta smirked and gripped his shoulder, turning him toward the tortured man. “Unwrap ‘em.”
Wicked balled his face up. He looked from him to the beaten man, wondering what the hell was up. The way he saw it, if it was a trick, a hundred of them Jamaican niggaz with machetes would have come from everywhere ready to chop his ass up like a fucking coconut. Figuring that it wasn’t a setup, he approached the poor bastard strapped to the chair, he placed his boot to his privates and mashed on them. He threw his head back, wailing at the top of his lungs. He screamed so loud that Wicked’s and Roots’ eardrums quaked. The men squinted their eyes and turned their heads, feeling the stinging of the noise in their ears. It felt like needles were jabbing them.
A light bulb of recognition came on inside of Wicked’s head when he saw the man’s face. The battered man was the cat that had led the pack of wolves back in prison that attacked him. This was the same cock sucka that had beaten his face with that lock in the sock in the shower room.
Wicked smiled maliciously and rubbed his hands together, like he had come up with the perfect master plan.
“My, oh my, how the tables have turned.” He slid his wet tongue across his top row of gold teeth and sucked in his bottom lip, nodding his head. “Payback is a mothafucka, homeboy.” He looked back at Roots. “G’ looking, dread.”
“Dun’t mention it.” He gave him a nod.
Wicked kneeled down and reached inside of his sneaker, snatching a box cutter free. Next, he grabbed baldhead by his neck, gripping it tightly, causing redness to form around his hand. He pushed the small square up the box cutter, extending the blade. Fear inhabited the man’s eyes. The frightened man murmured and squirmed, trying to shake loose of the mad man’s iron hold.
“No, arghhh!” His eyelids snapped open as wide as they could and he screamed aloud, spittle flying everywhere. Wicked smiled devilishly and his tongue curled at his top lip. He curved the box cutter around baldhead’s forehead down along his hairline. Blood oozed out of the wound following the sharp razor’s trail. Wicked gripped his bottom jaw so tight that his lips puckered up. He curved the box cutter along his jaw line causing the flesh to split, opening to the white, red-stained meat. Baldhead’s eyes darted all around his head and he stomped his foot rapidly. The skin of his face leaned forth like a slice of bologna still attached to the roll. Once the blade had reached the opposite end of his victim’s face, he stuck his fingers into the opening he created and got a good hold of it. While he was doing this, baldhead was still screaming hysterically. With a grunt and one strong tug, Wicked ripped the flap of skin off of his skull. It sounded like a strip of duct-tape being torn off. Schhrrip!
Roots didn’t even flinch when he saw this. He stuck a joint between his lips and flicked a lighter until a flame licked the air. The end of the jay crackled as it met with the fire. The Jamaican’s face scrunched a little as he sucked on the end of the marijuana stick, birthing clouds of smoke.
Wicked turned around, placing his victim’s face onto his own. He locked eyes with the victim in the rectangular dirt smudged mirror which was broken at all of its corners. When the bald man saw all of the slick, glistening red muscles in his face, he screamed and screamed, each time louder than before causing that thing at the back of his throat to tremble. Wicked whipped around glaring at the man, looking like something out of The Chainsaw Massacre, donning the flap of skin that was his face. His eyes darkened and twinkled with madness. He clutched the box cutter in his hand tighter, causing his knuckles to turn white. He brought the lethal weapon around and swung it with all of his might, slicing open his jugular. He threw his head back and his tongue wormed around inside of his mouth. His pupils looked like they shrunk as his eyes bulged. A searing, hot pain engulfed his neck like salt on a gash.
“Gaagggghhhhh!” His eyes stared up at his executioner as a black river oozed from the wide slit in his neck. His head bobbled after a time before it hung, his chin touching his drenched chest.
Sploch!
Wicked dropped his victim’s face on the filthy floor. He approached a table in the far corner that had a little junk scattered upon it. He picked up an old tattered T-shirt and wiped his hands clean. He then wiped the box cutter free of his blood and prints before letting it drop to the floor.
“Gimme a week and I’ll bring you his corpse.” He said to Roots as he passed him, climbing the steps. He got about halfway up the staircase and turned around. “I forgot to ask you, what’s the name of this cat whose cap you want me to peel back?”
“Donovan Cheatham, aka Don Juan.”