Anything for Profit 2: Nothing to Lose

by Floyd, Justin Amen

  Avoiding eye contact with Smack, who was now openly glaring at him, Mike got up from the table with his tray. He walked over to the door where the rest of the trays were stacked and placed his on top. He peeped Smack get up from the table and began to approach him. Mike smiled.

  As soon as he was within striking distance Mike grabbed the yellow mop wringer out of the mop bucket that was placed in the cell every morning for cleaning purposes. He swung it viciously, smashing it into Smack’s face. There was a loud crunching sound as something broke. Smack screamed out like a 12 year old girl as he fell to the ground and balled up into the fetal position. All that tough guy shit went out the window fast.

  “This what you wanted nigga!?” Mike yelled out as he repeatedly struck Smack with the mop wringer. Mike had blacked out. “Huh? Is this what you wanted!?” With every swing of the mop wringer, an image of Nikki flashed through his mind.The rest of the inmates just looked on in silence.

  Suddenly the door to M-Block flew open. CS gas was shot into the cell and the door was immediately slammed back shut. Within seconds, everybody in the cell was coughing and having trouble breathing. Eyes and noses were running. Skin felt as if it was on fire.

  The door to M-Block opened again. Several heavy set C.O.’s wearing gas masks and protective armor rushed in. They took Mike down hard and dragged him out of the cell. They grabbed Smack and pulled him out next. The nurses had already been called down, but as soon as they saw Smack they gasped. “Oh my God! Somebody call an ambulance!” one of the nurses screamed out. Smack had been beaten beyond recognition and he didn’t appear to be breathing.

  CHAPTER 27

  It was early in the morning; Valentine’s Day. The mid February sun could just be seen making its way over the horizon as the black Cadillac Escalade Ext. with dark tinted windows slowly came to stop outside of a large abandoned building in the Poe Mill section of Greenville. The entire vehicle was bulletproof and could withstand everything from high caliber missiles to a blast from a grenade and keep rolling. There was a war going on outside. The owner of the vehicle was a primary target so he made sure to take the proper precautions to ensure his safety.

  War was nothing new to Zulu. He had been embroiled in several over the years. He hadn’t made it to where he was, by being afraid of bloodshed. It came with the territory. But this shit with these fucking Mexicans had lasted far longer than he had anticipated. They were like fucking roaches. It seemed like as soon as you exterminated one, five more would pop up.

  Zulu yawned as he sat in the heated, plush leather seats in the back of his luxury tank sipping on a bottle of Fiji water and thinking. He was tired, but he was still on point. He had intentionally been 30 minutes early for this meeting with Tom Fields just to make sure there were no surprises. He wasn’t anticipating any problems. Tom was inconsequential in the big scheme of things. He was nothing but a messenger boy for the mayor. It was the message he carried that was important.

  Besides the driver, there were a total of four other heavily armed members of Zulu’s security team in the truck; including the one sitting beside him with a look of stone on his face as he gripped an M-16 assault rifle. These weren’t regular street dudes who got into shootouts and ended missing their targets, hitting innocent people. No, Zulu had surrounded himself with former paramilitary soldiers who were skilled guerilla warriors. They were trained to shoot first, and paid to never ask questions.

  Zulu watched as a nondescript sedan pulled up at the far end of the building. He watched Tom Fields get out of the car, look around nervously, and then scurry into a side entrance of what used to be a textile mill.

  The ringing of the cell phone in his lap interrupted Zulu’s thoughts. “Yeah,” he answered in his deep baritone.

  “I’m here. Second floor,” Tom said.

  Zulu chuckled. “I know Tom. I saw you when you pulled up and went inside. You should really try to be a little more… inconspicuous next time,” he joked as he pressed the end button on the cell. As soon as Zulu opened the back door, his security jumped out and assumed their positions; their weapons at the ready. He held up his hand and instructed his men to stay put as he limped noticeably towards the entrance of the building with his hands in his pants. It seemed every year the pain of the old war wound obtained in a shoot out on the streets of New York got a little worse.

  Normally, there would have been two men in the front and two bringing up the rear as he moved, but he’d met with Tom on so many occasions that he felt the security unnecessary. Plus, he didn’t like anybody else knowing what was discussed at these meetings. Zulu entered the building alone.

  Once inside the drab brick building, Zulu ascended the flight of stairs until he was on the second floor. He saw Tom pacing back and forth near an old desk. As usual, Tom was nervous. That was nothing new. Tom was always nervous. He was deathly afraid of Zulu and every time they met he sweated profusely. He was already wiping his dripping brow with his handkerchief.

  Fear is always better than love, Zulu thought to himself, smiling inwardly. “Tom… Tom!?” Fields almost jumped out of his skin. He stopped pacing and turned to look into Zulu’s dead eyes. “I’m assuming you didn’t have me meet you here this early just so I could watch you exercise,” he said coldly. Time was money and right now he was losing both. “What does your boss want to tell me?” Tom remained silent. Something was wrong.

  “Allow me to answer that question for you,” an accented voice from behind him said. Zulu spun around. He was greeted by 15 heavily armed Mexicans. They all had their guns pointed at him. The only way they could’ve gotten past his security is if they never passed his security. They had been in the building the whole time hiding; waiting. Zulu smiled. As an avid chess player he could appreciate when an opponent put him in check. But it wasn’t quite checkmate.

  “So… you must be Dinero,” Zulu said, addressing the one who’d been doing the talking. Zulu still had his hands his pockets. As inconspicuously as he could, he felt for the number 1 on the keypad of his phone and pressed it.

  “And you are Zulu. There’s really no need to drag this out my friend. Tom came to tell you that the mayor no longer has use for your services. They’ve become quite expensive. Your little war has been bad for business. Today it ends.”

  “Ironically, I was thinking the same thing,” said Zulu with a sardonic smile on his face. Just then, automatic gunfire erupted from the stairwell behind Deniro and his men. They were caught completely off guard. Four of them fell dead to the ground. The others ran for whatever cover they could find and returned fire. A shootout ensued. Zulu hit the ground. Bullets were flying in every direction. Bodies were dropping. The smell of cordite was thick in the air.

  The shootout had been intense, but extremely brief. This wasn’t a movie. When you had that many men, with that much firepower shit tended to end quickly... and brutally. After the Mexicans recovered from their initial surprise, they easily mowed down Zulu’s men on the stairwell. The only one who had managed to escape was the driver. After hearing the heavy exchange of gunfire he quickly started the luxury SUV up. He was being paid well. But not well enough to die. The tires left a cloud of dust as he drove away.

  The Mexicans had taken severe losses themselves. Out of the 15 or so members of the M2 that had been involved in the shootout only about 6 remained. Ears ringing from the gunfire, they were yelling to each other in order to be heard.

  As soon as the shooting began Dinero had been immediately thrown into a corner and completely covered by two of his men. Zulu watched from the ground as he pushed his men off of him. In Mexican he barked out orders as he got to his feet.

  Zulu laid flat on the floor and breathed only when necessary. In the chaos and confusion following the gun battle, the Mexicans had yet to notice him amidst the corpses that littered the ground. A fighter to the death, he decided to make one last move. As inconspicuously as he could, he reached behind him. Slowly he pulled his shirt up, exposing the rubber grip of the Glocc 9mm that was
in the small of his back. As he was beginning to pull it out, a booted foot slammed down onto his wrist. He felt the cool metal of a gun barrel on the base of his neck. “Aqui!” the Mexican yelled out to Dinero.

  Dinero walked over to where Zulu was, stepping over the human carnage that lay on the ground. He motioned for his men to stand him up. Two of the Mexicans lifted his heavy frame, holding him by the arms. A third kept his rifle at the base of his skull. His finger was on the trigger, waiting for the order. Dinero looked directly into his rival’s eyes. Zulu smirked. Even in the face of death Zulu remained defiant; fearless and regal.

  “Zulu, you have not disappointed. You have truly proven to be a worthy opponent. However, the games are over. Checkmate.” Zulu broke free from his captors grasp and lunged at Dinero. Before he could even get close, a bullet tore the back of his skull off his head and lodged in his brain. Dinero quickly sidestepped the body and watched it fall to the ground; a desperate act from a dead man. He calmly wiped the drops of blood from his face and turned to walk away. “Picar él y entregar partes de su cuerpo a su pueblo para que sepan que ya no existe!” Dinero barked out over his shoulder as he descended the stairs and left the building.

  Members of the Mexican Mafia began to pull out sharpened blades, saws and an assortment of other material sharp enough to cut through bone. The Mexicans made short work of Zulu. They started with his head. Within an hour the man formerly known as Zulu was nothing more than numerous pieces of flesh and bone stuffed inside of clear trash bags.

  In the far rear corner of the room was the only piece of furniture left inside of the abandoned space. It was an old, heavy, desk made of metal. It had rusted badly from its constant exposure to the elements.

  Underneath the desk, in the space where the secretary’s chair would normally go was a cowering Tom Fields. His arms were wrapped around his shaking knees as he rocked back and forth in the fetal position. He had pissed and shitted on himself but he sat there engulfed in his own stench, too afraid to move from that spot. He had just made up his mind that he no longer wanted a career in politics.

  $$$

  In the days following Zulu’s brutal demise, there was a lot of speculation as to whether he was really dead or not. That is until different parts of his body began to mysteriously show up at trap houses and dope spots under M.B.M. control. A foot with Zulu’s thousand dollar gators still on it would pop up here. A hand with Zulu’s quarter million dollar diamond pinky ring would pop up there. The speculation ceased entirely one early morning when Zulu’s severed head was found on the steps of his multi-million dollar mansion with his dick stuffed into his mouth. The war was over.

  Initially, some members of M.B.M. had wanted to retaliate. They quickly realized they had no resources to retaliate with. The identity of Zulu’s African connect had died along with him. Nobody knew how to get in contact with them or even who they were for that matter.

  As months passed, the idea of retaliation quickly went out the window. The streets were dry. Niggas pockets were on E. Everybody was scrambling, trying to link up with a decent connect but nobody had work as good or as cheap as the Mexicans. It wasn’t long before different members started copping their work from the M2.

  “Maaan fuck that shit,” said one of Zulu’s former lieutenants one day when he was asked why he was fucking with the Mexicans. “I don’t know what the fuck you niggas thinking ‘bout but one monkey don’t stop no show. There’s still a lot of money to be made out here in these streets. Just ‘cause that nigga dead don’t mean I’m finna starve! Fuck Zulu.” This made perfect sense to young black men and women from the gutters of society. They had been raised in Capitalist America where the Almighty Dollar was God. It was time to head back to church and give praise.

  CHAPTER 28

  Meka was feeling extremely stressed as she walked the aisles of the Wal-Mart on Woodruff Rd. She was absently throwing items into her cart that was on her shopping list. She was almost a month pregnant and being on the run with Ant was taking its toll. His cocaine habit wasn’t a habit any longer. It was a full blown addiction. His paranoia was getting worse. On more than one occasion Meka had woken up and watched for hours as Ant just stood at the window of their motel room in his boxer briefs. He’d peek from behind the curtains, listening intently as he gripped an assault rifle in his hand and stared absently into the night.

  Mike was locked in the county facing the death penalty. The money they had gotten when they’d robbed Twan last summer was beginning to run low. On top of that, Meka was feeling guilty about the fact that she hadn’t spoken to her mother since the beginning of the year. She wondered how Gloria would take the news of her pregnancy. She didn’t have the heart to tell her just yet. Meka sighed heavily. Shit was real.

  Meka was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn’t even see the man in front of her until she ran her cart into him.

  “Damn! You tryna run a nigga over?” a tall, dark skinned man asked, with a hint of humor in his voice. He was about 6’3 with the build of a wide receiver. His hair was cut in a fresh ceaser. He smiled at Meka, revealing straight pearly white teeth.

  “Naw, I wasn’t tryna run you over,” Meka said laughing. “Seriously though, that’s my bad. I wasn’t even paying attention where I was going.”

  “You sure you didn’t do that on purpose?” the man asked smoothly, looking down at Meka with a sly look on his face.

  Meka shot him a look of her own. “Umm… yeah, I’m pretty sure,” she said dismissively. She rolled her eyes at his little weak attempt at game. She pushed her shopping cart past him. He was fine as hell, but Meka got attention from niggas and bitches on her worse day. She damn sure didn’t need to hit anybody with a shopping cart to get them to notice her.

  “Yeah, well you definitely got my attention now. My name’s Deandré but everybody calls me Dre though.”

  “Well… Deandre’. It’s been nice but I got some shopping to finish doing,” she said, dismissing him once again.

  He walked in front of the shopping cart and stopped her. “Look, I’m not even the type to be chasing. Especially someone who don’t wanna be caught. But I can see past all that tough shit. I can see you’ve been hurt. But I can also see you’ve got a good heart.”

  “And how the hell can you see all of that? What are you; some type of psychic or something?” Meka quipped, immediately putting her guard up.

  “Look, call me alright…” he said extending a piece of paper with numbers on it to Meka. She just stared at it. “If you like what I have to say, then we can continue the conversation. If you don’t, then what have you lost?”

  Meka thought for a second. She looked the nigga over again. His tall dark chocolate ass kind of reminded her of Idris Elba. She could tell from his accent and style that he was from out of town. His attire didn’t consist of baggy jeans and an oversized white T-shirt. He also wasn’t wearing any gaudy jewelry that screamed for attention.

  A basic bitch might’ve made the mistake of thinking he was broke. Nothing about Meka was basic. Her keen eyes quickly spotted the inconspicuous but extremely expensive Frank Muller watch on his wrist. There were no diamonds in it and it looked simple but looks can be very deceiving. The watch was the price of most people’s homes. She didn’t know what this nigga did but she knew he was doing something. Meka smiled inwardly. Maybe she’d just found a nice lick.

  Fuck it, she thought as she took the paper from his hand. She dropped it into her handbag. If nothing else, she’d get into the sucker’s head and see what types of moves he was making. If he was holding like she thought he was then maybe she’d let him fuck… before she lined his ass up.

  $$$

  Meka awoke with the fire of desire burning between her smooth, brown skinned, slightly bowed legs. She was wet; soaking wet. In fact her pink Victoria’s Secret underwear were so drenched that in her first few disoriented seconds of consciousness she’d been afraid that she had peed on herself. Meka put her hands between her thighs and realized t
hat she hadn’t peed on herself; she was just horny and wanted to fuck. The memory of the previous night’s sexual activities had her pussy throbbing.

  She reached over and pulled the sheet back from her lover’s head, exposing his face. The blinds in his bedroom were slightly opened allowing the soft glow of the street lights outside to illuminate his features. Meka looked at her lover with a deep intense lust in her eyes. She leaned over and kissed him gently on the earlobe, whispering his name. He didn’t budge. “Baby, wake up.” She sucked on his earlobe as she rubbed his hard muscular chest. She called out to him again, in her little girl voice.

  “Hmm?” He mumbled something incoherently.

  Meka stuck her tongue in his ear and let her hand wander slowly down his chest and stomach until her small manicured fingers were inside his boxers, resting on his semi-limp dick. “Baby, you up?”

  “Yeah, I am now,” he said, his voice rough with sleep.

  “I want you inside me.” Immediately she felt her lover’s dick began to stiffen in her hand. Meka continued to play with it until it was so hard that she could no longer wrap her hand around the shaft. She reached over and pulled out a Magnum XL from an already opened pack on the nightstand. She opened the gold wrapper with her teeth and expertly rolled it down the thick shaft of his hardened member.