Chapter 35
Even though Kalif had endured more than his share of bumps, bruises, and hardships along the way, he was finally a true force to be reckoned with in the streets. His crew was back on their CD grind, and money was back to coming in heavy and regular. But make no mistake. The beef with the BBM was going on stronger than ever. And in Kalif’s eyes, there would always be a murder waiting to jump off where they were concerned.
Still, Allah had been blessing him. And this time he felt the blessing was better than ever. Li’l James had been in a dice game the evening prior. Sadly, he had lost his money. But what made it a blessing was the fact that Li’l James had caught one of the BBM fellas slipping. Kalif’s homeboy had quickly spotted him because of the gaudy chain he was rocking, with the letters BBM sprinkled in diamond dust. Thinking it was all good, because it was early morning, the guy had dropped some female off at the Amtrak station. Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t strapped. Li’l James, however, had stayed with a gun ever since the war started. When the man attempted to return to his car, he was cut off, a gun was shoved in his dental, and he was ordered to get inside the rental Li’l James was pushing. Like Keys months and months ago, the man had been ambushed. He would soon become another statistic in the beef of all beefs. But not before Kalif and company asked a few questions and demanded a few answers.
* * *
With several of his anxious crew members gathered together and passing around a gallon of Hennessy, Kalif, cell in hand, waited patiently to receive an text. He’d sent a throwaway worker to the other side of town. Having gotten word that their sworn enemies were posted at a certain stash house located near the old Kettering High School, the often deranged leader had to make sure the information was indeed correct. Not trying to tip his hand, he couldn’t run the risk of being made. And even though everyone that worked for him was capable, Kalif didn’t have to take or ask for volunteers for this job. This time around, the man’s task was fairly simple: creep on the address he was given and take pictures of all the vehicles in the driveway and parked out in front of the house. All he had to do then was text them to the Obama burnout, nothing more and nothing less.
It was 5:23 a.m. and still no word from old boy. If they wanted to make an early morning move, he’d have to get at them sooner rather than later. Yet while the others remained restless as they finished their community bottle, Kalif was patient. The crew had been down at Greektown Casino all night, keeping their “go time” energy up. But Kalif’s energy had been up for trouble ever since Keys’s murder. But now he continued to be calm. He’d prayed this morning to be protected from all his enemies and to be granted grace. So of course, he moved differently than the nonbelievers that surrounded him. His need for revenge and his taste for blood would come on Allah’s time, not on his own.
Seconds soon turned to minutes, and then Kalif received the notification he had been waiting for. He downloaded each picture, and the reality of the situation quickly became evident. The informant was telling the truth, but still hard to die on point and principle.
“Before daybreak, it’s gonna be some dead BBM bitches,” Kalif vowed with certainty before stepping over to the washing machine. Ready to put in even more work, he snatched up the dark brown handle of the meat cleaver. With it down at his side, he felt like the angel of death was speaking to him. Fear not being in the land of the living. But fear the painful scorch of hellfire that awaits you.
The members of the nine-man crew, who had been handpicked to murder when need be, moved back toward the walls of the basement. Kalif slow strolled along the path they had made for him. He then focused on the man they had duct-taped to an old lawn chair, and the next play was obvious to everyone present. As he got closer to the visitor, Kalif’s grip tightened on the handle of the meat cleaver. When they were only two feet from each other, they locked eyes, the predator and his prey. A stone-faced Kalif was not bothered by the other man’s gaze. He knew the tortured BBM member wanted mercy in return for snitching. And even though he had ratted out his own people and had put Kalif and ’em up on game, unfortunately, there would be no mercy. Retaliation for being on the wrong team and for killing his homeboy, and others since the war had begun, would be swift.
They were working against the promise of daybreak. After thanking the BBM member for his service, Kalif raised the meat cleaver. There was no hesitation on his part. The future was now. With one strong swing of the blade, it was done. Kalif hit his mark. Blood splattered on Kalif’s face and forearm and on some parts of the wall. Kalif looked down. The man’s neck had a huge open wound, and his head was dangling to the side, much to his executioner’s delight. Kalif showed no remorse, and neither did the others in the basement, who’d been down this deadly road before. For them, it was business as usual. After watching the man’s body slump over, Kalif dropped the bloodied meat cleaver to the floor and proclaimed victory.
* * *
It was still rather dark outside, but that didn’t slow Kalif down. And the normal busy traffic on Davison was not a factor. Kalif looked over at the passenger seat, at his high-powered weapon and the 9 mm that was keeping it company. In true gangster fashion, he had filed the serial numbers off both weapons. Unlike his boys behind him, Kalif had opted to ride alone. Always in deep thought, he had tunnel vision for what was about to take place. Concentration was boss as he drove through the city, heading east. Since there was no music playing to distract him, his adoptive father’s final words before his untimely death ran through Kalif’s mind.
Born to die. The angel of death is certain. Allah, spare me long dwelling on the threshold of final judgment. Take me quick. Do with my soul what you see fit. I’m not worthy.
He couldn’t come to terms with the fact that the man he had once looked upon as his hero was gone. The only man that Allah had put on this earth to believe in him was no more. Kalif would forever be plagued with guilt over Rasul’s ultimate sacrifice. From the moment he had witnessed his father take that fatal bullet to the head and had realized his life had been spared, Kalif had been no more than a shell of a man, one of the walking dead. But for what? Kalif knew he didn’t deserve having been conceived, let alone having a life. That thought haunted him and always would.
Navigating around countless potholes, he and his squad kept the vehicles tight, as if they were in a parade. As they jumped onto the Lodge Freeway, then connected with 94 East, it was almost “go time” for the band of would-be assassins. After they exited at Harper Avenue, the blue-colored metal K greeted them. They made a few right turns, passed a cluster of vacant lots, and then made a sharp left at a huge abandoned house. The clock was ticking.
When the ill-intentioned caravan reached their destination, Kalif’s heart raced. Not out of fear, but in anticipation of snatching the next man’s soul. After he came to a stop, Kalif flung the driver’s side door open. One foot on the ground, then the next, he took a deep breath, ready to do battle. His team did the same. Like a boss, Kalif was the one to lead the charge. And like a warrior, he was prepared to die first. As he let off a barrage of bullets, the street-ordained kingpin of Detroit mumbled his same earlier thoughts with each step he took.
“Born to die. The angel of death is certain. Allah, spare me long dwelling on the threshold of final judgment. Take me quick. Do with my soul what you see fit. I’m not worthy.” Kalif prayed for the best but would bravely accept the worst. This madness was the world he had been born into and the life he embraced.
The battlefield was harsh. But this morning’s attack was written in the stars to happen. The bloody certainty of demise had been building not for days and weeks, but for months. And now especially, since Kalif, Li’l James, Pit Boy, and Amir had been told back in the basement by the rat that Cutt and Mutt, who were indeed the hired guns who had left Keys facedown, would be in the house. It was their hope that if nothing else, Cutt And Mutt would feel the pain of death this morning.
With bullets flying in every direction, bodies were dropping left and right on both sides. Minutes into the battle, Kalif took a slug in his upper shoulder. It burned. It was hot. But it didn’t slow him down. And when he saw his boy Li’l James take a direct hit to the chest, Kalif moved even faster to get the job done, fueled by the rage inside him. Ten minutes later, many inside the house lay dead on the floor. Only a handful off BBM members were out of the house and still firing shots at Kalif and his crew. But one by one, Kalif and his guys picked them off, and the gunfire slowed down, then ceased. Police sirens could be heard approaching.
Kalif was certain that cowardly members of the BBM had hidden themselves somewhere around the house, and he wanted to continue until every single one of them was dead and buried, but he knew he had to retreat if he hoped to remain free. Nursing his shoulder wound, he rushed to his truck while yelling out for the rest of his team to do the same. Glancing back, he instantly mourned for Li’l James, who had yet to move an inch since taking one in the chest. Whenever his people had the chance to claim their fallen comrade, Kalif would make sure he was buried as a G. He owed that much to his homeboy, who’d been rolling with him almost since day one.
The strong-willed, murderous caravan headed back to the West Side a few vehicles light. Just when Kalif thought no one else was badly injured, he looked in the rearview mirror and saw that Pit Boy was no longer behind him. He hit up Pit Boy’s cell, and one of the other loyal warriors answered the call and said they were pulling up at the emergency room entrance at Detroit Receiving Hospital. He informed his boss that Pit Bull had taken at least one in the stomach and two in the arm. And he needed medical treatment immediately. Kalif knew his wound could and would be treated at home. He couldn’t run the risk of being directly associated with the bloody mayhem that’d just gone down. Praying for Li’l James’s soul and Pit Boy’s recovery, he pushed on and headed home to regroup.