Chapter 14

The dark-colored Yukon crossed the Verrazano Bridge into Brooklyn and merged onto the Gowanus Expressway, heading north toward Harlem. Soon the Yukon arrived in Manhattan, doing sixty miles per hour on the FDR. Once in Harlem, it parked on Second Avenue, across from the Wagner Houses. With spring almost right around the corner, the weather was breaking, and the city was seeing nicer days. The people were outside enjoying the weather, and traffic was everywhere. It was good to be home.

Unbeknownst to the hood, Squirrel had just arrived back in town. He gazed at his former territory from the backseat of the Yukon and frowned. World had pushed him out and embarrassed him. Now he was back with a thorough crew of soldiers and a quality product, hell-bent on taking back what was once his.

Three goons accompanied him in the Yukon. In the back of the truck sat several AR-15s and a small arsenal ready for a war. For the past two months, Squirrel had been in Charlotte, North Carolina, remaining low key as he came up with a master plan. He linked up with his cousin, Homando, an ex-Marine who was dishonorably discharged for sexual assault against a female Marine and drug use. He was convicted at a general court-martial for his offenses, and lost all his benefits as a veteran.

Once home, Homando used his skills on the streets to become a gun-for-hire for drug dealers. He soon got with other dishonorably discharged Marines with nothing to lose, and they quickly formed a deadly crew, taking over the drug trade in Charlotte and becoming contractors for murder.

When Squirrel and Homando reunited, Squirrel expressed his pain to his first cousin. Homando made it known to him they were family, but he didn’t come cheap. Squirrel was ready to extract his revenge, and World and Luca were at the top of his list.

He had gotten back with his baby mama Angel, and she held him down while he was hiding out from the Colombians.

Then he stalked Luca. He and his cousin needed a windfall, so he went to Luca’s home, found her cash and her drugs, took everything, and then burned her house down to the ground. For a moment, he’d sat parked some distance from the fire and watched the bitch’s home become engulfed in flames, smoke billowing as far as the eye could see. It was minor payback. He hooked his cousin up with the product, and then he was able to make his situation right with the Colombians, getting back into their good graces.

Squirrel moved weight with his cousin in North Carolina for a while until he got his paper back up and recruited his cousin’s insane crew as an army of contract killers. They were all military trained, highly skilled with weapons, bomb making, surveillance, and killing. To go against World, he knew he needed an insane team that didn’t give a fuck. They’d all seen their fair share of bloodshed, war, and death while touring overseas in Baghdad and Afghanistan.

Squirrel lingered on Second Avenue for a moment. He missed home. The 20 BLOCC and Flow Boyz were out on the streets making their presence known, as was law enforcement. Since that bloody shootout between his men and World’s goons, the NYPD had placed a mobile police station with a watchtower on the corner of Second Avenue and 124th Street.

Squirrel smoked a cigarette, observing everything.

“This is it,” he said to the men in the Yukon. “This is home.”

They remained quiet, looking around, watching the block, eager to cause havoc in Harlem. Squirrel was paying them a small fortune and promising them a nice percentage of a lucrative area if they got rid of World.

Squirrel’s crew had strong ties with a notorious gang known in Charlotte as the Hidden Valley Kings, HVK for short, formed in the late 1980s by a former Vice Lords member from Chicago. They represented themselves with black bandannas. Homando was once a gun-for-hire for the gang, implementing the military tactics he’d learned in the service on the streets. He made his way up the ranks and executed a hostile takeover.

“Let’s go,” Squirrel told the driver. He had another destination he wanted to check out.

They made their way farther uptown, toward 155th Street. Every part of Harlem was alive and pulsating with movement, from block to block. Traffic swamped the streets. Everywhere and anywhere, money was being made, legal and illegal. From 110th Street to Washington Heights, uptown was a goldmine, and the players didn’t want to leave the playground.

“Make a right here,” Squirrel told the driver.

The Yukon moved through the iron-clad borough easily, its North Carolina plate standing out. The truck made a second right and then a left and finally came to a stop in front of a five-story walk-up near Riverside Drive. The two-way street they parked on was wide with traffic flowing on the fading day. The building Squirrel scoped out was old and standard, the lobby nestled away from the street with a wide pathway.

“This is it,” Squirrel let the men know.

They waited, their hearts stuck on mayhem. They watched every square inch of the place, itching for some action. They collected the AR-15 from the back and locked and loaded. Squirrel’s intel had told him the scheduled pickup was seven p.m., in another half hour.

“We wait,” Squirrel told the killers in the Yukon.

More time went by with Squirrel watching people coming and going from the building. His ultimate weapon was the element of surprise.

At seven p.m., on cue, a white Lincoln Navigator parked in front of the building, and two of World’s henchmen men stepped out to collect payment. They strolled into the five-story walk-up like routine.

“I want y’all to fuck these niggas up,” Squirrel said.

Ski masks pulled over their heads, each man gripped an AR-15, 223-caliber, magazine-fed. In a few short moments, they were about to run the sidewalk red with blood.

Ten minutes later, the same two men started to exit the building carrying a small black bag.

“It’s play time, niggas,” Squirrel said. “Let’s do this shit.”

The doors to the Yukon flew open, and the goons quickly made their way out, machine guns itching to scream out. Three masked gunmen, including Squirrel, went for the two men carrying the bag, and the fourth went gunning for the driver behind the wheel of the Navigator.

Abruptly, the ex-Marines-turned-rogue savagely opened fire on the two henchmen, spraying their bodies with bullets and dropping them dead on the concrete. The sound of the AR-15s echoed loudly in the surrounding area.

The driver heard the sound of gunfire, but before he could react, glass shattered around him, and his blood sprayed the front seat.

Squirrel enjoyed it. This was his payback.

“Knock, knock, muthafuckas,” Squirrel said through clenched teeth. “I’m fuckin’ home.”

He snatched a hundred thousand in cash from their bloody hands before hurrying away from the crime scene. He was ready to take back what was once his, reclaim the throne, and become the king of Harlem again.