by Renta
I looked at her on the verge of sarcasm, but I was interrupted by kisses of death crashing through the windows and walls. Hot lead shredded Lovey’s couch in seconds, and luckily, I tackled Kristasia to the floor just in time before a burst of bullets cut the couch in half. Armani had dropped to the floor beside us with a terrified look on her face. In that instant, as shredded glass and sheetrock rained down on us, I realized the reaper seemed to have that typa effect on everybody!
****
~Assata~
Pain ricocheted through my body as soon as I landed on that hard ass floor, but I didn’t let that deter me from rolling away from the spot Russia would assume I’d fallen. My suspicions proved to be my savior because as soon as I rolled away—sparks lit the spot I’d just rolled from. The dick sucka was wasting bullets as he shot in the blind. The good thing about it was he’d be easy prey when death came for him—the bad thing was he could get lucky and hit his target. I wondered if he’d hit Snow, but that was a fleeting thought as I rolled into something solid and couldn’t move any further.
Pain shot through my limbs and I wanted to cry out in agony, but self-preservation gave me the will to smother that natural reaction. Suddenly, the shooting stopped, and the room became funeral home silently, yet, I could still taste the danger in the air. I pulled myself to a crouch—my eyes adjusting to the darkness when a movement to my left alerted me to the danger lurking close by. They must have felt my presence as well because their footsteps faltered before coming to a complete stop. Adrenaline surged through me as I prepared to charge the darkness, but just as I braced myself—the hunter's radio revealed their change in direction.
I silently exhaled as I felt around in an attempt to familiarize myself with my surroundings. Despair hung in the air when the sound of footsteps sounded nearby, but Shy or Lovey musta had me in their sights because as the steps came closer, my hand hit a flat surface—a table of some sort. Recognition surged through me, it was the table where the crazed doctor had all those strange objects! Elation gave me company as I felt around for the scalpel I’d seen him lay down on it. It took me a few seconds, but I found it and did my best to position the blade between my wrist and the rope without slicing myself. A walkie talkie static sounded somewhere near—too near.
‘Come on—come on, Lovey, I need you, baby,’ I thought as I worked.
“He’s here—I’ve found him!” Someone called out, and just as the blade sliced through the rope and freed my wrist; I flung the blade at the darkness—hoping I could do like those cats in the movies and hit my target, but the sound of the blade hitting the floor let me know it wasn’t a movie.
Just when resolve began to set in the lights roared to life and took us all by surprise. A few feet away from me stood a short brute of a man with sun-kissed skin, a buzz cut, and a strong jaw. He stared at me wide-eyed as he aimed an AR15 in my direction, seemingly unsure of what his next course of action should be.
“Kill him—kill him, now, Dimitri! Russia raged from across the room.
Buz Kut’s facial expression melted into one of deadly intent as his finger twitched on the trigger. “You’re a dead man!” he spat in his thick Russian accent.
He smiled wickedly and at that moment, for reasons I couldn’t rationalize, a serene feeling poured over me. I was ready to die.
‘Fuck it,’ I thought as I returned the grin and stared the reaper in his eyes. “What you waitin’ fa pussy!” I tempted fate through clenched teeth.
The Russian braced the weapon against his shoulder and as his finger applied pressure to the trigger, a deadly whisper hissed from the barrel of a suppressed weapon. Surprise was evident in my eyes as a small ball of fire raced through the air. In slow motion, I could actually see a trail of steam trailing behind it right before it snapped Buz Kut’s head back as if an invisible force had punched him. The ball of lead disappeared inside a small hole it made in the middle of his forehead, and a thick burst of blood squirt from it before making a trail down the middle of his face. I stared in fascination as the bullet exploded out the back of his cranium in a mess of blood cartilage, and brain matter. Homie’s body rocked backward but stayed upright for a moment as his soul wrestled from his body in a woosh of soft breath.
I stared transfixed as his dead eyes focused on me before gravity pulled him to the floor. The room seemed frozen in place for all of six seconds before pandemonium erupted! I dove for the dead man’s discarded weapon at the same time as volleys of lead spat in opposite directions. The entry door exploded into thousands of pieces as a figure with a red bandanna tied around the bottom part of his face dove through it relentlessly squeezing the trigger of a mini 14. In that same instant, the huge window blew to shreds as two black-clad men fired wildly as if they could care less who they hit.
My dawgs poured into the room as Russia’s people emerged out of thin air. Confusion blindfolded me until I remembered the fire escape that was next to the big generator. It led to the side of the building so I figured Russia must have known the layout of the old building just as much as I did. Bullets and blood flew from both sides, and just as I had a grip on the AR, I spun around just in time to spot the opposition takin’ aim at someone to my left. My eyes followed in aim and my blood froze in my veins as I squeezed the trigger. The red that spread across his chest gave me a moment's satisfaction, but like roaches, just as I took one down—another one took his place.
“Hub—watch out, bleed—” I attempted to yell over the roar of gunfire, but it was no use.
The O.G.’s body shook from the impact of the slugs hitting him in rapid succession. My eyes clouded as the big homie fell to his demise—his blood merged with the river of blood already on the floor. I wasted no time swinging the burna on the pussy that had just slain my dawg, but a strange whopping sound roared over the war cries and malice in the room. The wash from a helicopter’s blades gave the room pause and we all turned our attention to the orifice that was once stained with glass. Not even ten feet away, a uniquely designed Eurocopter panther’s hatch slid open to reveal a fatigue-clad Russian aiming an impressive .50 Cal machine gun at us, and the stand that it was supported by would make it easy to swing in all directions.
In the heat of our shock, Russia appeared from behind the generator aiming his heat in my direction, but that wasn’t what prevented me from whacking his clown ass—besides the .50 having the potential to demolish the entire room, the masked gunman that crashed through the window stood beside Russia, and in his clutches he held someone dear to me and my niggas. Tricky B had an expression on his face as if he couldn’t believe he’d got caught slippin’. Blood leaked from a cut on his forehead as his captor held him tight in a choke hold.
Russia took that moment to yell over the roar of the chopper’s rotors. “No more death ‘tis day—we shall meet again, mi friend, and next time you’ll die!” he shook with his pistol aimed at me to punctuate his point. “But today, you shall rejoice another day amongst de living—and me—” he smiled and gestured to the window. “—I mas catch de ride—if anyone fires another round, mi friends will eradicate the entire room.” His eyes turned cold as he backed toward the window, and his escape from the hands of death.
In his native tongue, he spoke to his soldiers, and they rushed out the same way they came, except for Russia and the two devils that made the grand entrance. As soon as Russia reached the window, a roped ladder was thrown to him. He wasted no time grabbing it and saying something to his henchmen that I couldn’t hear over the roar of the propellers. Hatred for the man burned like a wildfire deep inside my gut as I watched him, and one of the masked men climb the ladder leaving the man that was holding my family’s life in the balance. His eyes bore into mine as he released Tricky and whispered something in his ear that made Tricky walk toward us.
Me and the stranger never broke eye contact as he removed his mask and though we never met, I recognized him without an introduction. The tribal designs that covered his head, and face were tiger stripes, and
as our eyes clashed, my mind carried me back to that day at the hospital when Lovey first laid eyes on the tattoo of the lion’s head on my neck.
Lovey smiled at me. “No, no—don’t be silly; it’s just that I’ve been having this reoccurring dream about a lion squaring off with this giant tiger, it always ends with the tiger defeating the lion.”
My eyes locked on his as my mind brought me back to the present, something was off with the smile that the fuck boy gave me, and before he raised his gloved hand, I knew his crooked intentions.
Without giving it much thought—I raised the tool and tried to warn Tricky, “Get down—get down, he’s—” but I was drowned out by the wash of the blades cutting through the air.
Bewilderment was the last look that registered on Tricky’s face before his chest opened up. He fell to his knees as I rushed forward firing at the fleeing figure. The helicopter was long gone as he turned and disappeared off the ledge of the window, so I fired the tool until the click alerted me that the banana was spent. The room stank of death—loss—and gun powder as I stepped to the window seal and gazed around. I knew the sucka had gotten away, but hope gave me the right to inspect the ground. Empty! Disappointment swan in my stomach as I turned to face reality, but just as I was turning away, something caught my eye and made me smile.
A splash of blood was still warm on the window seal, maybe the fuck boy wasn’t so lucky after all. I ran my fingers over the small puddle, and once they were wet with my enemy’s blood, I rubbed them together and vowed my revenge.
“Naw, Trick, you gotta hold on, bruh, yo kids need you, fam,” the homie Spyda’s heartbroken melody caused me to turn my attention to him.
He knelt over Tricky B with blood staining his clothes and flesh. Tricky was a gangsta through and through as he smiled up at his younger brotha and lifted a bloodied hand in the shape of the set.
“Take—take care of my se—seeds, bro, let—tell my story. N—n no tears, fam, real niggas don’t die,” he rasped as him and Spyda’s bloody hands locked in the villain handshake.
Spyda wiped his eyes with bloody hands, yet, the tears couldn’t be contained. They merged with the blood on his face and rolled down red tinted and slow as Tricky B’s body went slack, and his eyes went blank. Spyda’s eyes closed for a moment but reopened suddenly as if he was surprised. He stared off into space, and a smile creased his lips. He hit the set up and saluted the air as if he was seeing something we weren’t. My heart throbbed for my niggas as the sound of sirens tainted the night.
“We gotta burn, you, niggas get Hub and Tricky—we need to smash out!” Goose shouted as he turned to me. “Nice to see you amongst the living, Junior.”
I was on the verge of replying until the sound of guns cocking diverted my attention to a petrified white woman. The blood and dirt that stained her skin made her look like an orphaned prostitute. Snow had an uncertain look on her face, but the rage that rushed through my veins closed my heart to understanding. I raised the tool with murda in my soul, but before I could snatch the slut’s spirit from her.
Goose stepped in my line of fire, I glared at him. “Bruh—fuck you doing, this bitch—”
“Saved your life,” my brotha whispered as he pushed the barrel of the rifle toward the ground.
I stared at the woman, then laughed—I forgot the clip was empty.
Part Two
A Rotten Apple
~The Prisoner~
Judas Iscariot betrayed Jesus for thirty pieces of silver, the same thirty pieces that he returned before hanging himself for crossing the same man that he sat at the table, and broke bread with. These past few months, I’ve lived with the same guilt that Judas took to his grave with him, treason! My mind is more of a prison than my surroundings and my thoughts are the jailers. Lately, I’ve tried to find peace with a God that I can only hope exist. I siphon my prayers through a blue-eyed man that is said to have died so I could be purged of sin, yet the war within reveals the core of a rotten apple.
In my life, I’ve witnessed people’s actions and intentions place the wrong definitions behind words that held totally different meanings. Love is supposed to mean devotion—sacrifice—protection—happiness—truth! Yet, love in my world was demonstrated by women who left their men when shit got ugly. By mothers who used their seeds as a way to hold on to what they’d soon lose—Loyalty! Loyalty was ‘pose to mean by all means—honor—love—til’ death—Through the good and bad. But it was taught to me by niggas that fucked each other’s wives. Men that allowed pennies to cloud their senses—men that sliced the throat of the cats they came out the sandbox wit.
So, my core holds no ill intentions, but my survival is dependent on deception—self-preservation! I’ve observed that the truth is like a reflection. The reflection of an ugly and scarred woman. No man or woman wants to feel insecure, so they use cosmetics—preen themselves for their flaws. Truth is a curse to the ears of a person that believes in fairytales, even though our hearts yearn for the truth—truth is, we can’t handle it.
The first Miranda Right, “What you say will be held against you in the court of law! The truth may set you free mentally, but in reality—the truth will get you five to ninety-nine in a cold prison cell for the things you considered justified, but the world viewed unjustly. Adulation is beautiful—even when it’s fabricated. The illusion of an apple is visual, at first sight, the fruit seems ripe for the picking—its exterior appears to be mouthwatering, but it’s all a façade. Once you take a bite, you’ll fall onto the realization of its interior being rotten. Then—as you gaze into its core, you’ll see the worm smiling at you!
Chapter Eight
Death and Revelation
~Goose~
Two Days Later
Jigga Man’s Blueprint album kept us company as we swept and cleaned Lovey’s living room. It was the first day we’d been back at the house since the showdown with the Russians. That night was filled with crazy shit! After we got Assata, he wanted to go to the emergency room to be checked out—the wounds he’d sustained were minimal, but he’d spoken of poisons and nerve agents, some real Adolf Hitler shit. The hospital wanted to keep him overnight even though they didn’t find any traces of poison or nerve agents. They’d fed homie antitoxins and laughed at his claim of being exposed to some shit called Novichoks.
The doctor pulled me to the side and explained how impossible that was, the man of medicine explained that Novichoks was a 1980s nerve agent that is nearly impossible to obtain.
The dick sucka told me, “Mr. Price, this stuff your brother claims to have been exposed to would have driven him crazy before killing him. The stuff is so powerful that in the eighties a lab engineer in Moscow named, Andrei Zheleznyakov whose job was to test the toxicity of this nascent weapon for the Soviet boys, accidentally inhaled some of it. The man recovered, but later said he’d lost his mind! So, you see how crazy this sounds?” The man had me questioning my brother’s sanity until Assata snapped and snatched off the shirt he’d taken off one of the deceased at the warehouse.
The doctor’s mouth dropped in horror as Assata explained how he’d been fed antitoxins and drained of his blood to detoxicate his body, he showed the man cuts his experience with the drug. Though he still seemed skeptical, they admitted homie for his tests. That was only a portion of the craziness—when I made it home, the police had been there! Someone had hit Lovey’s spot up. Shit was ugly, so, me and Pain ducked off at Pain’s crib until things cooled down.
“Say, bro, why the fuck would you put yo’ tool behind the TV? How you gonna get to it before the enemy put one in your head—or was Lovey a secret assassin?” Pain interrupted my thoughts.
Mine and Assata’s eyes shot to him, Assata’s stare was inquisitive, mine was blank as my mind instantly transported me back to the night the gun must have been planted there.
“Don’t lie, Bennie—” she said as she walked up to me and peeled my fingers from around the burna. She took it by the barrel and walked over to her purse.
I watched as she placed it inside and found her way back in front of me. We don’t start a relationship with lies,” she said.
Disappointment was like a pit of serpents swimming in my stomach, the venomous bitch had soothed my soul and put the blade in my back at the same time. As my pride snapped, I realized that no matter how much game a man possessed, a woman would always have the upper hand. Charm had nothin’ on seduction, and a hard dick was a dangerous weapon for a woman with the knowledge of her lower lips and ill intent in her heart. I heard snappin’ sounds before I felt the sting of pain, but I was too far into my thoughts to comprehend the sources as I reflected.
Kamika eased down from the bed as soon as she thought I had slipped off into a sex seduced slumber. She must have forgotten that I was a madman with blood on my hands because the sneaky bitch neva glanced back to see if I’d awaken. A man that lived the life I did, had to be aware at all times—even when he’s asleep! I gave her the benefit of the doubt, but after enough time had passed that was needed for one to use the restroom or get a late-night snack. I slipped from the warmth of the bed as silently as a panther in stalk and pursued my prey. She must have done the deed in record time because, by the time I made my presence known, she’d been standing in the dark—anxiously awaiting the other end of her call to pick up.
“Goose!” Assata shouted. “What the hell is wrong with you, bruh?”
Hearing the confusion in his voice, I had to crawl my way back from the pits of my thoughts only to find my brothas staring at me as if I’d lost my marbles. Assata’s eyes fell to my hands and stared at them bewilderedly. Curious, I followed his gaze—the broom I held resembled two chopsticks. Somehow, I’d snapped it in half and the evidence of my broken pride dripped red from my left palm where the wood had sliced into the soft flesh.
“Fam, you know Lovey ain’t had no gun, and I damn sure ain’t put no tool behind the TV!” I growled as my eyes found those of my ridas.