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Juvie had been sending The Eme brothers on a wild goose chase for the past couple of days. He took them to several traps of competing drug dealers, promising that Don Juan would show, but he never did. He was trying to stall the brothers for as long as he could, so he could find a way to escape their clutches, but so far he hadn’t come up with a plan that would spring him free of them. He and Uduka played the station wagon, while Uche kicked in the trap in search of their younger sibling’s executioner. Not even five minutes later, Timon and Uma’s first born came strolling out tucking his banger at the front of his pants, looking over his surroundings, an angered expression fixed on his face. He’d kicked in the door of the trap, shooting niggaz in their legs and shouting threats if they didn’t tell him where Don Juan was, but no one knew who the hell he was.
As soon as his brother hopped into the backseat and slammed the door shut, Uduka pulled off in a hurry.
“Dese is fuckin’ bullshit,” Uche fumed, slamming his fist on the backdoor panel, frustrated. His head snapped in Juvie’s direction and he was looking scared as shit. “Dese cock sucka is sending us on a wild goose chase.”
“I’m telling you where the fuck he is, man! Ain’t ma fault the nigga ain’t here!”
“Ya play games, huh? Do ya?” he asked with madness in his eyes. He looked insane and like he was up for the challenge of making him talk. “You think we not serious? I’ma show yo’ punk ass.” He whipped out his .45 and pressed it into his kneecap. Before he moved his leg, he was pulling the trigger. The gun was so close it sounded like a cap gun was being fired.
Juvie’s head snapped back and his eyes pooled with tears. He went to scream, but the oldest of The Eme brother’s slapped his hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. His head snapped in all directions to see if anyone had seen or heard him do what he’d done, but there wasn’t a pair of prying eyes in sight. Uduka was staring up at the rearview mirror, having seen all of this happen. He watched as his brother focused his attention back on Juvie, observing the agony written across his face as his muffled screams continued.
“I’m gonna take ma hand off of ya mouf and I sweah on ma brudda’s grave, if ya make so much as a peep I’m gon’ shoot cha dead in ya face, ya heah?” The young hoodlum nodded as tears wet his cheeks. “Good.” He removed his hand and he doubled over in pain, squeezing his eyes shut and silently sniffling. “Now, I want an address where this deek sucka is more than likely at. If we get there and he’s not dere, guess whose deek I’m choppin’ off.”
“Alright, okay, there’s only one of two places he’d probably be.” Juvie winced. “They’re like a safe haven for him. Only me and my nigga, Lil’ Stan, know where they are.”
“Okay. Now we’re gettin’ some weah.”
Uche picked up a roll of duct tape from off of the floor, and extended a lengthy strip before tearing it with his teeth. Afterwards, he smacked it over his mouth and rubbed it down so it would stick.
“Alright, pull off.” He ordered Uduka.
Sometime later
Uduka pulled up a few feet away from the liquor store that Don Juan had just entered. Their eyes were glued to the entrance, watching him attentively, as he made his way inside.
“Alright, keep her running and keep an eye on that piece of shit back there.” Uche threw his head to the backseat where Juvie was gagged with his wrists duct-taped behind his back. He then checked his magazine, smacked it back into the bottom of his .45 and chambered a round into it. The blood of Boxy’s killer would be his.
“Hold on.” Uduka grasped his wrist as he was about to hop out. His head snapped in Don’s direction. He had a furrowed forehead. “Some guy in a red hoodie just went in behind him. Let’s wait ‘til he’s alone.”
“Okay.” He nodded his approval and the waiting began.
***
Wicked pulled up across the street and a few cars down from where Don Juan had parked. He killed his engine and watched him emerge from his Porsche truck and slam the door shut. His head was on a swivel as his eyes followed him inside of the gas station. Once the Trap God was out of sight, he popped open the glove-box and grabbed a pair of latex gloves. He slipped them on one at a time and flexed his fingers inside of them to make sure they were good and snug on him. Next, he reached inside of the glove-box and withdrew a handgun. Once he screwed the silencer on the end of his weapon, he made sure there was one in the head and threw open the driver side door. He took one last look at the picture of him, Baby Wicked and his Aunt Helen when they’d come to visit him while he was in youth authority.
I miss you, bruh bruh, I’ll be up there one day. But for now I’ma ‘bout to send this nigga up there to kick it with chu.
With that, he hopped out of the car and slammed the door shut behind him. The nigga pulled his hood over his head and jogged toward the gas station with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, keeping an eye out for witnesses.
***
“Alright, there our mon is.” Uche made Don Juan emerging from out of the restroom, with a father and his son retreating from him. He was so absorbed by his finally getting to murder him that it never even crossed his mind why the man and kid were hurrying away from him. The taller of the African’s hopped out of the car as his prey was approaching the sidewalk, ignorant of his presence.
Seeing one of his abductors with his gun low about to creep up on his man and serve him a clip full of some hot shit, Juvie scooted over to the cracked open window of the backdoor and leaned his head up against the door panel. Using his tongue, he jabbed at the duct tape, causing it to nudge up from his face until it came up from his mouth, hanging loose from one end. It flapped over his lips and he blew it hard to keep it from sealing his grill closed. He swallowed and screamed as loud as he could, veins throbbing at his temples and neck.
“Don Juan, watch out!” His breath fogged up the glass and spittle hit it.
“Shut da fuck up!” Uduka’s head snapped to the backseat and he whipped out his thang-thang. He reached into the backseat, cracking his punk ass over the dome repeatedly.
“Ah! Ahh! Arghhh!” The hoodlum winced with each strike of the steel against his melon. The assault left him dazed and confused. He moaned in regret and pain. The younger of the African’s settled back down in his seat, laying his gun on his lap and focusing his attention through the windshield.
***
Don Juan had spent the greater part of his day getting shit-faced at The Barfly which was a dive on the lower eastside of Los Angeles. It was a place that an abundance of unsavory characters frequented. Nonetheless, he fit right in. The place was like the ghetto version of Cheers and he was just as known as any employee there. The recent widower took about six glasses of Hennessy and Coke to the head and would have taken more had the bartender not refused him service. Seeing that he’d overstayed his welcome, he dropped a couple of bills on the bar top and made his departure.
Don Juan knew that it was against his better judgment to have gone out and gotten drunk that night. But with all of the drama going on in his life and the shadow of death following close behind him, he needed to escape his harsh reality, even if it was only for a couple of hours.
On his way home, his bladder constantly nagged at him, so he figured he’d pull over at this gas station that he knew wouldn’t deny him access to their restroom, being as how he supplied its owner with the drugs he sold. Not even thirty minutes later, Don Juan was hopping out of his truck and hurrying inside like he was being followed. He staggered into the men’s restroom, struggling to keep his balance. He shuffled over to the urinal like a dead man and unzipped his jeans, pulling his meat free from its denim prison.
“Aaahhh!” A look of relief crossed his face and he threw his head back, bladder emptying as he whizzed. Once he finished, he shook his member twice and put it away, zipping his jeans back up. He moved over to the sink and turned on the faucet, pumping pink liquid, foamy soap into his palm. He rubbed his palms together and lathered them up, as he rinsed his hands beneath the cool flowing water. His drunk ass was whistling when a man in a red Champion hoodie over his head entered the restroom. He clocked him walking toward the stalls, but paid him no mind, feeling as though he was just minding his business.
Don Juan looked down at his hands and rinsed the soap from them. Once he looked up, Champion hoodie was pointing a handgun with a silencer on it at him. His eyes stretched wide open and his mouth damn near hit the floor. The sight of the lethal weapon sobered his ass up quick.
“Haa!” the kingpin gasped.
Tiaz, the name of the nigga who sent the hit man resonated inside of his head. Right after, he saw the gunman’s finger bending around the trigger. Swiftly, he dove out of the way just as the first shot was fired. Choot! The bullet crashed into the mirror and cracked the glass into a cobweb.
“Ooof!” He hit the linoleum with a grimace and his head snapped up. Seeing the gunman swinging his head bussa around and pulling the trigger, he rolled on the floor like he was on fire, narrowly missing the embers meant to take his life.
Pewk! Pewk! Pewk! Pewk!
The floor shattered as it was shot the fuck up. The Trap God rolled up against the wall. He looked up, breathing hard and hoping not to be shot. His worried eyes found him about to bust on him again and his voice caught in his throat.
Click!
He flinched expecting a hot one in his dome. When he saw the gunner trying to un-jam the round that clogged up the slot of the weapon, he knew then that it was the perfect time to react. Don Juan’s face twisted with madness and he sprung to his feet, charging at the shooter. The gunman had just un-jammed his weapon and moved to point it. He’d half expected his head to be blown off, but to his surprise he didn’t get his shit splattered.
“Uhhh!” The shooter was tackled by Don Juan and lifted off of his feet, being slammed on his back. The impact sent his gun up into the air then dropping to the floor, sliding up against the wall beneath the row of sinks.
“Tryna kill me, huh, nigga?” Don Juan fumed with darkened eyes and his lips sucked inwards. He balled his fists tight and threw solid blows at the man’s face.
Thwap! Wop! Wamp! Bamp!
The gunman’s face winced and he saw flashes of white when each blow landed.
“Yuuckk!”
The Trap God’s eyes went as wide as golf balls and he wrapped his hands around his neck. His foe jabbed him dead in his jugular with two strong fingers. Using both of his palms, he then clapped his ears at the same time.
Clapppp!
“Aaarhh!”
The assault set off an eerie siren in his ears and left them stinging.
“Uh huh!” The gunner snarled, making his fingers into the peace sign, he jabbed his enemy in the eyes.
“Ahhhh!” His mouth stretched open and he smacked his hands over his eyes.
Bwap!
The shooter punched him in the jaw, knocking him off his person. He scrambled to his feet, looking for his gun. Spotting it underneath the sink, he went for it, but was tripped up once Don Juan grabbed his ankle. He fell forward and his chin went slamming against the edge of the sink, knocking him out cold. The Trap God got to his feet and quickly snatched up the head bussa. He pulled the hoodie from over the gunman’s head and pressed it into his face, indenting his cheek. He squeezed his eyelids shut and turned his head, so the blood wouldn’t get into his eyes. His finger curled around the trigger, he went to pull that bitch back and a knock resonated at the door.
“Lucky ass,” he said, standing erect, looking down at the dispatched gunner. “I ain’t gon’ kill you in here and risk a charge, nigga.” He tucked that thang on his waistline and threw his shirt over it. Afterwards, he unlocked the restroom door and pulled it open. He found a patron and his son there. His eyes shot from him to the nigga he’d left sprawled out on the restroom’s floor. Scared, he clutched his son’s hand tighter and hurried away.
Don Juan left the restroom, blinking and massaging his eyes. They were sore and he still felt stinging in them. He winced and wiped his tearing eyes with the back of his hand, frowning. He marched toward his car in a hasty fashion, paying no attention to his surroundings. He was oblivious to The Grim Reaper on his heels. The shadow on the cracked, black-spotted sidewalk was damn near on top of him. An object the shape of a gun was extended at its side as it moved in on him, ready to deliver that fatal shot.
“Don Juan, watch out!” A voice came from his right and he snapped his head in that direction. He found a tall African there dressed in a cheap suit trying to creep up on his mothafucking ass. Fear ripped through his heart. He dove to the sidewalk, tucking and rolling. He stopped in a kneeling position with that banger extended. Both hands clutching it, he hugged the trigger. The head bussa jumped as it spat that heat.
Splocka! Splocka! Splocka! Splocka!
The tall man dove behind a car with bullets narrowly missing him. They Ping! Zing! Ting! Clinggged! Off of the vehicle’s bumper and side view mirror. Don Juan whipped out his own piece and cautiously crept on the fool that had come for him.
“You come knocking on Death’s door, and The Reaper may just answer!” he bellowed, guns held up at his shoulders, moving out into the street to see if he could catch him slipping from the opposite end. “Who sent chu, nigga? Tiaz? The Mexicans? The Jamaicans?” Just then, the gunner from the restroom came sprinting out. He stooped low and pulled the .38 revolver from his ankle holster. Don Juan had just crept upon the tall man without his acknowledgement. He smiled wickedly and licked his lips as he pointed the deadly ends of his toys at him.
Goodnight, he thought as his fingers curled around the triggers of his burners.
Bop!
Crash!
The back window of the Ford Mustang he was standing beside shattered, garnering his attention as well as the nigga he’d snuck up on. When he whipped around, he saw the homeboy he’d left staring up at the ceiling in the restroom. He turned his gun on him and banged back, empty copper shell casings leaping over his hand. He retreated toward his truck letting both of his guns go ham, backing the gunner down. A noise to his left stole his attention and he spotted the tall man again, rising to his feet, heat in hand. Don Juan whipped his second gun around in his direction, letting him get in on the action as well. Once the second banger was spent, he tucked it into the front of his jeans and got busy with the first, nearing his car. His hand jerked violently as he banged it out, narrowing his eyes into slits as he backed up.
“He’s mine!” the tall man barked, seeing the other cat busting on his prey. He turned the fury of his weapon on him.
Poc! Poc! Poc!
The gunner’s banger clicked empty and Uduka came beside Uche, letting his tool act a goddamn fool. Poc! Poc! Poc! Poc! He gave it to that nigga all in his mothafucking chest bone, causing him to stagger backwards and fall on his ass. When he and his brother whipped around to Don Juan, he was in his Porsche truck flooring it away from the battlefield.
“Shit!” Uche slammed his fist down on the trunk of a car and kicked its bumper several times. “I was this fucking close.” He showed his brother with his thumb and forefinger, which were a half of an inch apart.
When The Eme brother looked to the gunman that was made victim by their guns, he was long gone on some Michael Myers shit. They exchanged glances with surprised expressions across their faces. Hearing approaching police sirens, Uche nudged his brother and they retreated back to their car.
Uduka pulled away with his brother cracking Juvie upside the head with that steel, talking plenty of shit.
“Punk ass beesh.” Uche mad dogged Juvie as he laid moaning and bleeding from the side of his egg. He turned to his sibling. “Jump on the 105 and punch it up ta a hunnid miles an hour.” Uduka locked eyes with his brother through the rearview mirror and nodded. He followed his orders, hopping on the freeway and gunning it. It was dark and all that could be seen in addition to the lights over the signs were the red and white backlights of speeding cars. The windows of the G-ride they were in were cracked open, so the cool air rushed inside, ruffling their clothes.
Holding his .45 on Juvie, Uche reached over him and unlocked the door. After he shoved it open, he set his sights on the young thug, maliciousness dancing in his eyes.
“Dis is as fah as ya go, neega!” he yelled over the sound of the blowing winds, rushing against him and causing the collar of his shirt to slap up against his chin, repeatedly.
Juvie slowly came to moaning, feeling the wind blowing onto his face. His eyes fluttered open and he looked about. Spotting the backdoor open and seeing the asphalt speed past him in a blur, scared the shit out of him. His eyes nearly flew out of his head and his jaw ached from screaming.
“Nooooooo! Noooo! Please, God!” He threw himself toward Uche and busted the older African’s lip. He grimaced and shoved him off, touching his lips with his fingers and coming away with blood. When he grabbed him by the front of his shirt to throw him out, he started biting on his hand and arm.
“Argh! Son of a...” He squeezed his eyelids shut and tightened his jaws, showcasing his teeth. Growling, his eyes snapped open and his hand was like a blur. Crack! He knocked Juvie upside the head with that thang again, but he couldn’t even feel the pain with his adrenaline being jacked up as high as it was. Uche leaned all of the way back in the seat and kicked on the youngster. His dress shoes struck him in his chest, neck, and chin, before landing a blow flush in the mouth. That was enough to send that ass flying out of the car screaming.
“Ahhhhhh! Ooof!” He hit the ground and went flying back hastily. The darkness seemed to swallow him. Uche looked down the road at the tumbling body. He didn’t even blink as it was run over by several oncoming vehicles speeding toward him. The boy came apart like a Mr. Potato Head and his spleen and bladder were quickly squashed by the cars down the road.
Uche closed the backdoor and settled back down in his seat. His nostrils flared as he breathed hard, chest rising and falling rapidly.
“You okay?” Uduka looked up through the rearview mirror at him.
“Yeah.” He threw his head back and closed his eyes, swallowing his spit. They’d been leaving quite the trail of blood behind them on their road to revenge and with each life they took their souls darkened just that much more. It didn’t matter to them though. They’d forfeit their souls if it meant that they were going to finally get their hands on their loved one’s killer. The oldest of the Nigerian’s peeled his eyelids open and sat up, clearing his throat with a fist to his mouth. “Go back to the house where we followed him from, Duke. He’s sure to return their since his son is there.”
“Alright.” Uduka responded, following his brother’s orders.
Today they’d get their man or die trying.
Chapter Twelve
Once order was restored back at the hospital, Faison was placed in another room on a different floor. His cousins stood outside the door tooled up in case some more shit was to pop off.
While they held it down, Chevy was getting the back of her head stitched up and her bodily wounds attended to. She stared off into space thinking about her son and where he could possibly be at that time. It had been a couple of days and the police didn’t have any leads on his whereabouts. She posted missing persons pictures of him all over her neighborhood, in hopes that someone would contact her, but she hadn’t had any such luck yet. Just thinking about never seeing her baby boy again turned her eyes glassy. She’d been a ball of emotions since he’d gone missing and knew that she’d never be the same without him. Chevy blinked her eyes and mashed the wetness out of them. Exhaling, she ran her hand down her face and cleared her throat.
“I’m almost done, sweetie.” The nurse told her as her gloved hands patched up the holes in her.
“Okay.” She looked to her and nodded.
Chevy’s thoughts drifted off to Helen the night she’d gone to see her about Te’Qui. She didn’t know what it was, but it was something that was definitely off putting about her behavior. Although she didn’t notice it then, she’d been analyzing the situation since she’d left her house. It was like she was hiding something from her. She didn’t know exactly what it was, but she had a feeling that she may have had something to do with the disappearance of her son. Chevy didn’t want to think that she had anything to do with her boy being kidnapped, but she was starting to feel that it was more than likely. She remembered hearing someone yelling for help when she came to the door that night. And although Helen claimed that it was the TV, what she heard didn’t sound like it came from the television to her. The voice was kind of muffled like it was far away or deep down somewhere. Maybe the basement, she thought to herself, forehead creasing with curiosity.
Chevy massaged her chin as she gave it some thought. Her mind switched from Helen to her oldest nephew, Wicked. She’d heard some of the God awful things he’d done and she wouldn’t put anything past him, not even kidnapping. The only question she had was why would he want to kidnap Te’Qui? What reason would he have to snatch up her little man? Hmm, she pondered on it harder this time, going to her encounter with the mad man. He’d said something that was suspect to her, real suspect. The crazy thing about it was that she couldn’t quite recall what it was, so she rewound the interaction inside of her head, going over it many times.
Chevy closed her eyes and visualized her encounter that night with Wicked, rewinding that moment back multiple times trying to figure out exactly what he was saying.
“I’ma be sorry for yo’ loss, too, if Te’Qui...”
“I’ma be sorry for yo’ loss, too, if Te’Qui don’t...”
“I’ma be sorry for yo’ loss, too, if Te’Qui don’t tell me something.”
“Helen’s basement.” Chevy’s eyes shot open and she sprung to her feet, shoving the nurse aside and darting out of the room. The sound of the nurse’s voice could be heard echoing down the hall as she asked Chevy if everything was alright. She sprinted down the hall where she saw Faison’s cousins, JT and Lil’ Chris shooting the shit outside of his door.
“Nigga, you ain’t fuck Pam witcho lyin’ ass.” Lil’ Chris laughed heartily, with his hand on his stomach.
“That’s on momma.” JT declared, lying his ass off.
“Lil’ Chris, I need your strap.” Chevy slowed to a stop, panting out of breath.
Lil’ Chris frowned and chuckled like ‘This bitch can’t be serious.’
When JT looked to Chevy and saw the seriousness in her eyes, the smile immediately fell from his face. He didn’t know what drama she had on her hands, but he wanted to help her. But unfortunately, all he could offer her was a banger being that his place was there protecting Faison.
“Hell you need my strap for?” Lil’ Chris inquired, needing to know what shit she’d gotten into that she needed a burner.
“I don’t have any time to explain, just let me get that.”
“Man, I’m not finna...”
JT nudged his younger relative and said, “Gon’ and give it to her, fam.”
“You can’t be serious?” He looked at him with furrowed brows.
“Nah, give her that.”
Lil’ Chris blew hard, hating to have to part with his gun. Giving the area a cautious look, he whipped out his Glock and cocked one into its chamber, passing it off to Chevy on the low. After concealing the weapon on her waistline, she gave him a grateful nod.
“Thank you.” She made a mad dash down the corridor, heading towards the elevator. Seeing her disappear down the hallway, JT and Lil’ Chris exchange somber expressions.
“Yo,’ what chu think she needed that banger for?” Lil’ Chris asked.
“I don’t know, but it must be serious.” JT theorized.
30 minutes later
Chevy pulled up a couple houses down from Helen’s house, killed the engine, and hopped out of her Caprice. She slammed the door shut and jogged toward the house. Nearing it, she hunched down and made her way through the yard. She crept along the side of the house and got down on her knees where the basement window was. The glass was filthy as hell, so she narrowed her eyes trying to peer through it. She thought she saw someone lying down on the floor in the far corner, but couldn’t be for sure. Harping up a glob, she spat it on the window and rubbed out a circle with the sleeve of her shirt. Her eyes widened with hurt when she saw her baby boy down in the basement dirty and crazed looking like a delusional homeless war veteran. Seeing him in such a state made her feel as though she had failed him as a parent given his current situation. She was distraught and heartbroken, but she knew that she had to do all within her power to rescue him.
“Don’t worry, baby, I’ma get chu outta there, okay?” Chevy spoke to no one in particular. She pulled the gun from around her back that Lil’ Chris had given her and chambered a round into that bitch. Her mind was on some Taken movie shit. The plan was to kick in the door and go in there squeezing off on any threat to her and her son. She made to do just this, but her better judgment prevailed. Looking from the gun in her hand to the basement window, she decided that her idea was stupid. If she pulled a stunt like that she could be killed before she was ever able to rescue her son. For all she knew she could be running into some kind of child prostitution ring with a few gunners in there guarding it. What good was her gun against several others? She wouldn’t make it out alive and she was sure of it. Chevy tucked her steel at the small of her back and paced the ground beside the house, thinking hard. She snapped her fingers and pulled out her cell phone, jogging back to her car she dialed up a number.
***
“What chu watching?” Wicked came through the door, finding his Aunt Helen on the couch watching television. He’d just come through the door as Chevy was pulling up outside.
“Dr. Oz,” she responded, seeing the burn holes in his hoodie where’d he’d been shot. “I’m not even gonna ask.”
“Good.”
He headed inside of the kitchen and cracked open the refrigerator. He grabbed a bottle of Hennessy and removed the top, tossing it into the trash can. Standing where he was, he turned the bottle up, guzzling it.
“Ahhh.” He hissed with closed eyes, shaking his head. The dark liquor was acquired to lessen the stinging of his wounds. Next, he unstrapped the bulletproof vest and tossed it onto the kitchen table. On his way back into the living room, he stopped at the oval shaped mirror with the unique golden frame. The crazy son of a bitch took swigs as he looked over the red swellings were he’d been shot. Oddly enough, he was thankful for them. It was better these bruises than real live bullet holes in his ass.
“Fucking Don Juan.” Wicked said to no one in particular, just then his cellular rung. He pulled the device out of his pocket and saw that it was Roots. Once he pressed answer, he brought the cell to his ear. “’Sup with it?” He took a swallow of the liquid fire.
“Ya took care of dat?”
“Nah, I missed, some otha niggaz were there.” He spoke like it wasn’t a big deal.
“Da blood clot? Ya godda make sure ya sleep dese nigga. Beena long time comin’ now. Ya understand me?”
“Man, fuck dat, I’m through with this shit. You want this nigga then you get ‘em ya damn self.” Wicked raged, spit flying from off of his lips. He was sick and tired of being Roots’ slave. He knew that popping shit off at the mouth like that was likely a death wish but he’d had enough. If the Jamaican decided to send his people at him then he was going to take a couple of them with him before he met up with Satan in the afterlife.
“Watch ya mouf bwoi, me got da mind ta take ya off ya feet.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah?”
“Suck my mothafucking dick, old pussy ass nigga!” He disconnected the call, feeling cocky and sure of himself. “Fuck them spaghetti heads. What they think? They the only gangstas out here? They got guns and I got guns. We can do this shit in broad day light, in the middle of the street.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yep.” He plopped down on the couch and kicked off his red All-Star Chuck Taylor Converses. His banger was digging into his hip, so he whipped it out and rested it on his thigh, keeping his finger around the trigger. “That wasn’t ‘bout nothing.” She stole a glance at him and noticed his bloodshot eyes and the bags below them. That and the nasty bruises on his body made him look like he’d been through hell. He was exhausted, having run around the city trying to track down Don Juan and peel his mothafucking thinking-cap back.
“Those bruises look kind of bad.” She made her observation, a line deepened across her forehead. “You want me to get chu some ointment?”
“I’m good, Aunty, don’t wet it.”
“Well, alright.” Her eyes studied the key around his neck. It twinkled every time the illumination from the television danced on it. It was as if it was daring her to take it from its owner. She took it as a challenge. One she’d rise to meet. Helen focused her attention back on the TV, occasionally glancing over at her nephew and then at the clock above the refrigerator.
Before she knew it, he was slumped and snoring, Hennessy bottle leaning toward his lap, threatening to spill every time he took a breath. Helen slipped off of the couch. Slicking her lips wet with her tongue, she crept towards him with the stealth of a feline. Making her way around the couch, she took pinches of his necklace with both hands. As soon as she made to lift it, he snorted an octave louder and smacked his lips, adjusting his head. She paused, but kept the necklace pinched between her index fingers and thumbs.
Her eyes shot to the gun in his hand and her heart jumped angrily at her left breast. She closed her eyes and swallowed the lump of nervousness in her throat. After waiting until she felt that he was back in his slumber, she gently lifted the length of jewelry from around his neck and looped it over his head. Helen moved to head for the basement and caught another look at the steel in her nephew’s hand. Tempted to try for it, she gave it some thought and decided against it. If she were to get caught, that would be it. It wasn’t any doubt in her mind that her nephew would dome her with one of the hollow tips that the weapon held. With her mind made up, Helen departed to the kitchen and grabbed a steak knife before dipping off to the basement to release Te’Qui from his shackle and into the free world.
***
Helen crept down the steps as quietly as she could until she met the floor. She pulled the drawstring and brought the basement to life. Te’Qui’s head shot up from the surface and his eyes narrowed from the bright illumination of the bulb. He wiped the crust that had formed from the corners of his eyes and watched his late homeboy’s aunt approach him.
“I got the key.” She whispered, holding up the key to the shackle. This caused a smile to stretch across his face.
Helen leaned down and passed him off the steak knife. She then unlocked the shackle and pulled it free from his ankle.
“What’s going on here?” A frowning Wicked looked from Helen to Te’Qui. She nearly leaped out of her skin, hearing her nephew’s voice boom at her back. She and Te’Qui were so engrossed in what they were doing that they didn’t hear the maniac creep up on them.
Helen whipped around wearing a guilty expression, looking like a child that had gotten caught with her hand inside of a cookie jar. Te’Qui’s heart was beating so fast that it feels like it was about to explode inside of his chest. All he could do was stare into the mad man’s eyes and wonder what was going on inside of his twisted mind.
“Nothing, I was just checking on him.” Helen delivered the thought as soon as it was birthed in her mental.
Wicked’s eyes narrowed into slits. He had a feeling something was up.
“I need to talk to you in private for a second, come upstairs with me.”
“Okay.” She tucked the gun into the small of her back and walked past him, climbing the steps. Wicked stood at the bottom of the staircase watching her, he pulled the steel from off of his waistline and pointed it at her. She’d just turned her head to the side to look over her shoulder when he pulled the trigger.
“Nooooo!” Te’Qui screamed from where he lay, reaching out.
Pop!
“Aaahhh!” A hot one entered her back causing her to throw her head back and scream aloud, face showcasing all of her excruciation. She fell awkwardly, tumbling down the stairs hard and fast, sliding across the floor. Helen lay on her back staring up at the ceiling. Her eyes twinkled with tears at the corners of them and she murmured. An approaching shadow brought her shade and her eyes darted to their right. She saw her nephew standing over her. She tried to move, but her limbs wouldn’t cooperate. Her mouth went to say something, but before the words could be formed death greeted her.
Pop! Pop!
He put all of that heat in her scalp and kicked her corpse. “Fucking Judas.”
Wicked turned around to Te’Qui and advanced in his direction, taking his time like he was on a stroll through his neighborhood. The little nigga looked from Helen’s strewn dead body to the face of her crazy ass nephew. Te’Qui’s chest was jumping crazy and his eyes were frighteningly wide. He swallowed the lump of nervousness in his throat and closed his eyes for a moment, pulling himself together. There wasn’t any way in hell he was going to die scared and on his knees, he’d meet his demise head on, middle fingers up high. Te’Qui pushed off of the filthy floor and stood up. The young man stared his would be executioner directly in his maddening eyes, showing the maniac that he wasn’t afraid of a mothafucking thang. He harped up some phlegm and spat it aside on the ground, setting his eyes back on the evil soul approaching him.
“You’ve got balls, lil’ homie, big, gigantic balls.” He showed the size of the balls with one hand while the other held tight to his gun. He cocked his arm back and made to crack the youngster upside the head. A sudden movement that was too fast to clock caught him by surprise. “Arghhhhh!” He grabbed his eye grimacing, dropping his head bussa, having been jabbed in the pupil with a knife.
The next jabs came quick and without warning, poking up his chest and forearms. Then there was that one attack that made him scream the loudest, he got that in the side of his throat. “Gagghhhh!” His good eye bulged and he smacked a hand over the spurting hole in his neck. He staggered backwards, giving Te’Qui enough time to react. He finished unlocking the shackle with the key Helen had left in it. After letting the key fall, he tossed the shackle aside and it clanged on the surface.
He then jetted toward Wicked, bumping his shoulder as he ran past him. Suddenly, the mad man’s hand shot out and he grasped his neck causing him to howl in pain. The pain was so intense that it caused him to drop the steak knife, his aggressor kick it away. It slid across the floor, spinning in circles until it was lost beneath an old deep freezer. Te’Qui grabbed a hold of Wicked’s wrist and winced, feeling his neck being jerked back violently.
“Lil’ fucka!” He slammed his forehead into the railing of the staircase and released him. The boy hit the floor on his back, eyes closed, mouth shut, snoring like he was asleep. He was knocked out cold. With his one good eye, the crazy bastard stared down at him, gritting teeth and clenching his fist. “Grrrrrr!” He growled like an old junkyard dog, before going blindly mad with rage. Hand pressed down on the hole in his neck, he stomped and kicked the little nigga until he was bloody and bruised. He was furious. First his aunt had tested his gangsta. Now this little pipsqueak had the nerve to try him.
“Haa! Haa! Haa!” He breathed like he’d just finished running a marathon, studying the injuries he’d given to the youngster. His head snapped up and he met an old antique mirror at the back of the basement wall. Its frame was gold and filthy, while its glass had amassed dirt. He hurried over to the back of the room, carefully looking over his reflection as he held his neck.
Wincing, he slowly peeled open the eyelid of his wounded eye to take a look. He was completely blind. The pupil had been gouged out and some colorful gunk was oozing out of it. His head snapped away from the mirror, his eye anxiously searched the room until it fell on something. Wicked rushed over to the table and snatched up a roll of duct-tape. He pressed two fingers down on the wound as he stretched the tape out and began wrapping his neck up with it. Once he was done with it, he then tore the length of tape with his teeth and tossed the roll of it aside. Keeping his eye on the reflection, he pulled the black sunglasses out of the breast pocket and slid them on. He turned his head from side to side making sure he got a good look at himself.
Through the mirror he saw Te’Qui lying out in the floor unconscious. This made him mad all over again. His eyebrows arched and his nostrils flared.
“I got something...I got something for that ass.” He stormed over to his worn brown leather bag and unzipped it. He dipped his hand inside, rummaging through the torture tool collection he had amassed. Once he found the one he was looking for, he withdrew it. It was long with jagged edges. He smiled evilly as he stared at the shiny, bladed weapon. A gleam swept up its entire length and illuminated his face. He chuckled wickedly before licking his chops and marching over to Te’Qui’s strewn form, ready to perform his fatal operation.
“Yeeaahh, it’s about that time.” He grabbed his bony wrist and made to drag him when he heard a loud noise coming from upstairs. His brows mush together and bewilderment enveloped his face. He listened closely as the noise continued. His head swung around to the small basement window where he saw several booted feet headed in the direction of the house. It was the S.W.A.T Team. Soon after, he heard a helicopter flying toward the area. He really looked alive when he heard a succession of thunderous booms as the police were ramming the door. While all of this was going on, he went about the business of duct-taping up Te’Qui’s mouth, wrists, and ankles. When he grabbed the kid under his arm, he heard a Boom! and the front door banging off of the wall. Right after came a stampede of boots trampling throughout the house.
Wicked dragged his capture across the floor until he met with a rug which he threw back, revealing a secret trap door. He grabbed the door’s handle and flung it open.
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
“All is clear up here, too.”
“Check the basement!”
He heard the collage of voices coming from above him. Then he heard the basement’s door being assaulted by the battering ram. He tossed Te’Qui through the secret door and he landed on the dirt floor beneath the house. He then pulled the door closed as he headed down the short steps. As soon as the door clicked shut, he heard the basement door come crashing down. Wicked grabbed the youngster under his arm, dragging him through the dirt as he climbed toward the gated passage beyond him. It was gated and light was illuminating through it. At the corner of the gated passage, its wiring was bent up and he saw a couple of rats ooze through. He paid them no mind as he navigated toward his freedom, taking the time to smack a baby spider he felt crawling up the side of his face. The further he crawled, the more light shined on his face until he was dead smack in front of the passage.
Thud! Thud!
He looked over his shoulder and two of the S.W.A.T Team members were crawling after him, one African American, the other Caucasian.
“Stop, you fuck!” the Caucasian one blared.
“Fuck y’all niggaz, Blood!” Wicked shouted back, yanking open the passage with two strong tugs.
The white cat aimed his automatic weapon at him about to blaze his back up until the black one grabbed him by the wrist.
“Wait, he’s got the kid with him!” the African American warned him.
“Shit!” the Caucasian pounded the dirt floor with his fist.
Wicked crawled his way out from underneath the house. When the street lights hit him, he was dressed in dirt from head to toe. He reached back inside of the passage and grabbed Te’Qui under his arms, dragging his little ass out. His head snapped up, hearing the locks of the back door being undone. Swiftly, he hoisted the youngster over his shoulder and sprinted off toward his BMW. He popped the trunk with his remote control, opened it, and deposited him inside. Thunk! He slammed the trunk closed and ran over to the driver side door. Bringing the vehicle back to life, he stole a glance out of the window. The S.W.A.T Team was coming from underneath the house and through the back door. Wicked threw his whip in reverse and floored it, sending the rear of his ride crashing through the gate and tearing it down. He then switched the gears into drive and mashed out down the alley, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.
Vrooooom!
Wicked flew out of the alley and into the street, turning left passing Chevy. She cranked up her Caprice and mashed the pedal, but it died on her.
“Ahhh, fuck, come on, come on.” She turned the key in the ignition several times and mashed the gas pedal repeatedly, but the son of a bitch wouldn’t start up. “Damn!” She smacked the dashboard heatedly. Clenching her fists, she went to assault the steering wheel, but stopped herself while in motion. She put her hands together in prayer and closed her eyes. “Lord, let this car start, so I can go after this bastard and rescue my son, please, please, please.” She begged, then took a couple of deep breaths. With her eyes shut, Chevy said a silent prayer and turned the key in the ignition. The Caprice cranked right up.
“Thank you, Father, thank you.” She looked up at the ceiling. Right after, she pulled away from where she was parked and went after Wicked.
***
Once Wicked figured he’d put a good distance between himself and his Aunt Helen’s house, he took a couple of glances over his shoulder to see if the police were on him. They weren’t. He took his flask out of the glove-box and screwed off the cap, taking a long drink. He hissed, feeling the dark liquor course down his throat. The alcohol wasn’t because he wanted a drink. He needed it because his wounds were kicking his ass and it was just the remedy.
Wicked screwed the cap back on the flask and tossed it into the front passenger seat. He adjusted the rearview mirror and took a good examination of his injuries. Seeing the work Te’Qui had done on him angered him further and he clenched his jaws. Lil’ mothafucka, he looked over his shoulder and punched the ceiling rapidly. He pulled over alongside the curb and popped the trunk, grabbing his torture tool from underneath the seat. Slamming the door shut, the nutcase made his way around the back of the car.
Fuck it. I got baby bro’s killa, he can rest in peace now. I’ll let the streets catch up with homie that hit Brice off with that work. But this lil’ nigga here gotta go. Wicked stepped to the trunk and lifted it.
“Ooof!” His eyes bulged and he doubled over, dropping his Instrument of Death. The weapon clanged when it hit the street and a scowling Te’Qui swung the tire iron across his head. Pling! The mad man flew off to the side and hit the ground, moaning in pain. The little nigga had used the pointed end of the tire iron to cut himself free of his restraints. He jumped down into the street, dropped the tire iron and took off yelling and hollering for help.
***
Tiaz rode in the backseat of the police cruiser, hands cuffed behind his back and neck on a swivel. Although he was taking in the scenery as he was driven down to the precinct. The thug looked more like he was trying to find an address or the name of a street the way he was going about it. Hearing a voice at his back the police officer riding in the front passenger seat looked over his shoulder through the gate at the suspect.
“Hey, buddy, do me a favor and shut the fuck up back there, will ya?” He settled back down in his seat.
“What’s going on?” his partner inquired.
“Fucking whack job is talking to himself.”
“Yeah?” His forehead wrinkled.
“You mean you don’t fucking hear ‘em back there?” He looked at him like ‘How didn’t you hear him?’
“Yeah, you’re close, real close.” Tiaz spoke just above a whisper.
“Aye, I’m not gonna tell you again!” the officer roared at Tiaz. “You open your big mouth once more and you’re gonna get real acquainted with this here night stick!” He held up the black metal rod. The roughneck stared at the officer with a solemn face, but then his lips went on to form a smirk. “Hell are you smiling about?”
He turned his head slightly to the left and the law enforcer saw the ear bud. His eyes grew big and he went to say something.
Craashh!
A car slammed into the police cruiser and it fishtailed out of control, bumping up against a light post. When the cruiser had stopped, the police had bloody gashes in their foreheads and were moaning in pain. Tiaz peeled his head back from the ruined back door window. It had cracked into a spider web when his head went whamming against it in the crash. He grimaced, feeling the throbbing in his head. Tiaz popped his thumb bone out of place and slipped his hand out of the handcuffs. Afterwards, he snapped his thumb back in place and looked his hand over. He then went about the task of getting out.
He was about to start kicking at the back window glass to break it. But that’s when she arrived. Bianca, assault rifle in hand, slamming it into the driver side window, cracking it until it gave. She reached inside and popped the locks to the back door before pulling it open. Right after, she was handing Tiaz the handcuff key. He unlocked the cuff and threw it aside, following her to the van. He jumped into the awaiting vehicle and she was right behind him pulling off.
“You okay?” she questioned, driving off.
“Just a lil’ banged up.” He winced bending his neck and back. “You get that from ‘em yet?”
“Yeah.” She opened the glove-box and passed him an envelope. He hastily opened it and pulled its contents loose. He smiled deviously. “Don Juan’s current address, now we know exactly where to find this lil’ pissant.” He looked at a smaller sheet of paper inside. It was the size of a sticky note. He held it open with his thick thumbs. “Uh huh, everything has fallen into place.” He passed Bianca the sticky note. “Get me here.”
He then climbed into the back of the van and opened up a duffle bag, pulling loose a sweat suit, among other things.
“What about ya boy, Faison?” she asked, looking from the windshield then over her shoulder.
Click Clack!
He chambered a hollow tip round into the brand spanking new Beretta before replying. “We’ll double back, but right now I wanna get this one bad, real bad. This heartless mothafucka has it coming.”
“Right.” She laid the sheet of paper down on the front passenger seat. They were off to their next destination to tie up another loose end.
***
“Well. You don’t have to worry about it, Toots.” Herby patted Ta’shauna’s thigh. He’d just finished telling her how he’d been hired to guard her with his life and he’d give it up without a second thought if it meant her salvation. Although she popped a lot of shit off at the mouth, she was truly scared to death of Tiaz coming after her.
“Thank you.” She grasped his hand firmly. “I really mean it.”
“Don’t mention it, Sweets.”
A knock at the door put a pause to Herby and Ta’shauna’s conversation. Seeing the worry etched across her face, he placed a reassuring hand on hers and slightly squeezed it. “It’s okay, relax, it’s probably your brother.” He rose from the couch and approached the door, gun at his side. He leaned forward and took a gander through the peephole. Confirming who it was, he tucked the burner into its holster and turned to Ta’shauna. “It’s Faison.” When he relayed his discovery, she sighed with relief and relaxed a bit. “See, all of that worry for nothing.” He unchained and unlocked the door, pulling it open.
“Where’s Ta’shauna?” Faison stepped through the door.
“Faison?” His sister rose to her feet excitedly, hearing his voice.
“Hey, baby sis.” He hastily approached and she opened her arms. She’d never been happier around him. They embraced. She closed her eyes and rested her chin in the nape of his neck. He swept his hand back and forth up her back as he relished in the tender moment of affection.
“Arghhh!” Her eyes snapped open and her jaw dropped, she staggered back looking at him in turmoil. She touched her torso and her trembling hand came away wet with blood. She looked up at her brother accusingly. “Wh-why, Faison?”
“Not Faison,” Tiaz spoke into the voice changer device then threw it aside. “Tiaz.” He glared up at her and smiled menacingly, snickering. He was wearing a hairnet, gloves and hospital moccasins over his shoes so he wouldn’t leave any forensic evidence for the murder he was about to commit.
She gasped and screamed. “Ahhhhhhh!” Turning around, she ran for her life, but she didn’t get very far. Bump! She ran dead smack into the wall and fell out. She lay on her back with a knot forming on her forehead as she moaned, moving her head from left to right. Breathing sporadically, heart racing, she blindly scrambled upon her feet. She could feel Tiaz’ presence, but she didn’t know exactly where he was. Unbeknownst to her, the thug stood behind her, watching as she moved in circles feeling for something that wasn’t there. Evil was in his eyes and a gun was in his hand. He lifted his silenced weapon and put one in her spine and two into her cabbage.
“And that’s that,” Herby said from over his shoulder.
Tiaz looked to find him slipping his suit’s jacket back on. He then opened up the thick ass envelope he’d given him upon entering and quickly thumbed through the dead presidents inside. Figuring that it was the amount due to him, he closed the envelope and secured it inside of his suit.
“Well, it was nice doing business witcha. I’ma get going.”
“Nah, you stay here with her.”
“Wha...” His head snapped back as a hot one pierced his forehead. He fell to his knees and leaned all of the way back, sitting up awkwardly. Tiaz reached inside of his suit and removed the envelope, stuffing it into his back pocket. Pulling out a bandana, he wiped the murder weapon clean and tossed it beside Herby. He used the bandana to open the door and turned around, his eyes giving a quick sweep of the room before descending out of the house.
Tiaz hopped into the front passenger seat and slammed the door shut. He pulled a cigarette loose from a pack of Newport 100s and stuck it between his lips. After ripping out a match from a book, he raped it across the black strip and a flame awakened with a hiss. He fired up the square and took a couple of puffs, fanning the flame of the match out. A victorious smile curled his lips having finally gotten his hands on Ta’shauna. It had been a while coming, but thanks to Herby he was able to get his revenge. He’d hired the man as soon as he found out Ta’shauna had survived the fatal wounds. He believed that if anyone could find her, a private investigator could. And he was right.
“Where are we off to now?”
Tiaz took the Joe from out of his mouth, blowing smoke from his nose. “Don Juan’s.”
With Ta’shauna finally out of the way, Tiaz could now move on to the rest of the niggaz that had wronged him. The people on his Shit List were growing fewer and fewer. His victims would feel his pain and forget that mercy ever existed.