44

Deuce and Jimmy arrived at the isolated location near a set of abandoned train tracks and the Christina River. For a half mile, there was nothing around but the elevated 495 freeway that crossed over the river. It was dark and late, and it was a dark looking area, nothing alive and moving but the animals and insects. Deuce and Jimmy trusted the location. No one could set up on them—no buildings to hide in, no busy roads—nothing. It was a ghostly looking area.

Jimmy had done his surveillance, and he was content with where they were to meet with Sergeant Connelly. They sat inside the Yukon and talked while waiting for Connelly to show.

Connelly had been on point since Deuce had met with him at his home. He fed him information, made arrests that were beneficial to his drug organization, and warned him of snitches. Connelly feared him and had a lot to lose; it’s the reason he made the perfect corrupt cop for Deuce.

“Where is this muthafucka?” Jimmy said.

He glanced at the clock. It was 12:45 a.m. There wasn’t a soul around—not a sound; it was the cold, the vacant land, and the dark.

“He’ll be here. Whatever he needs to talk about, it better be good,” Deuce said.

In that moment, the two noticed the headlights approaching their way. Jimmy gripped the Uzi in his hand. Deuce strongly felt it wouldn’t be needed. He warned Connelly to come alone and if he tried anything, to think about his wife and kids. It wasn’t just his job in jeopardy.

The gray Crown Vic rolled up toward them and came to a stop. Deuce squinted his eyes at the car and saw one silhouette inside. The headlights shut off and the door opened. Connelly stepped out of the car and looked their way. Deuce and Jimmy exited the Yukon and walked toward the cop.

But then, Connelly suddenly stopped in his tracks and appeared to be nervous about something. Deuce read his body language—not good. His eyes shifted toward the 495 freeway. Something was wrong.

As Deuce rotated his head to see what had caught Connelly’s attention, Jimmy’s face exploded. Blood and brains flew everywhere—looking like a smashing watermelon, and his body violently propelled forward. Before Jimmy could fall, another sniper’s shot nearly took off his whole right half. His body crashed to the ground, facedown.

“Muthafuckaaaa!” Deuce shouted.

He attempted to aim his gun at Connelly, knowing he’d been set up, but a deadly sniper’s bullet ripped through his chest and pushed him back against the truck. There was a gaping hole in his chest, but somehow, he was still alive. Connelly looked at him wide-eyed, as Deuce struggled to breathe and aim the gun at him once again. He wanted to kill the sergeant before his death. But then another bullet ripped through his face. The splash of blood and bone went all over the place. Deuce fell dead, and between both bodies, there was enough blood to drown a small animal.

Unbeknownst to both men, the van parked on the shoulder of the 495 freeway harbored an astute sniper with a Barrett M82 sniper’s rifle. Hired by Scott, Kwame was one of the best killers money could buy. He could shoot the wings off a fly. Through the scope, he observed his handiwork from far away.

Mission accomplished.

He soon aimed the rifle at Connelly, targeting the man in his crosshairs. The sergeant was walking back to his car, but he didn’t make it far. Kwame put a bullet through the back of his head and killed him instantly. Direct orders from Scott—no one leaves the area alive—no one. Connelly lay dead, sprawled facedown on the ground near the Crown Vic with a hole the size of a baseball in his head. Connelly had to go too; he wasn’t to be trusted. He had sold out Deuce for a promise of a two-million-dollar payout and he was responsible for losing many men and money while collaborating with DMC. A message had to be sent. The era of Deuce and DMC was over.

Ruthless, Scott was. No more Mr. Nice Guy.

Next on Scott’s list was Whistler. He didn’t know Whistler’s fate had already been sealed by Layla and Lucky.