by Roy Glenn
MOB
( A Mike Black saga - 1 )
Roy Glenn
Roy Glenn
MOB
Book One and Book Two combined
Chapter One
I ain’t a killer, but don’t push me.
The words of Tupac Shakur pounded from the stereo of the 1999 Chevrolet. The car’s system wasn’t all that, just the regular factory Delco that came with the car, but at least it had a CD player.
Mr. Blue sat in the back seat and stared down the street at the objective. He always took this time to focus on the task at hand, to see the entire job unfold, executed to perfection in his mind. There would be no mistakes, no hesitation, and no slip-ups. But there never were, so why should today be any different?
Mr. Green and Mr. White sat in the front seat. Mr. Green nodded his head to the beat of the music while Mr. White tapped nervously on the steering wheel. Each was dressed in black-floor length trench coats over black jumpsuits, gloves, and wool hats. All sat in complete silence, mentally preparing for what they were about to do.
“Time check,” Mr. Blue said as he looked at his watch.
“Ten-forty,” Mr. White replied as both she and Mr. Green checked their watches.
“Ten-forty, check,” Mr. Green said. “They’re late.” He slumped down in his seat and nodded his head to the beat as Tupac continued to put it down. He hated waiting and was becoming restless.
“Never mind that, Mr. Green. Weapons check,” Mr. Blue said, trying to keep them focused and on task. He checked the 12-gauge pump shotgun in his lap and then the two 9 millimeter pistols that were holstered under his coat. Mr. White and Mr. Green checked their nines and verified that they each had six extra clips.
“We’re ready! These muthafuckas just need to get here,” Mr. Green spit out as he placed one of his weapons back in its holster.
“Patience, Mr. Green,” Mr. White said. “You’ll get to bust that baby soon enough.”
“Patience is your thing, Mr. White. You know what an adrenaline junky I am,” Mr. Green said, brandishing the other nine before returning it to its holster.
“Maintain operational silence,” Mr. Blue said.
At that moment the target vehicle turned onto the street. “Mr. Blue,” Mr. White said. “Late model Lincoln Continental limousine approaching on your nine.”
“Acknowledged,” Mr. Blue replied as he put on his headset and turned on the monitor.
“About time. Here we go,” Mr. Green said, smiling as he and Mr. White put on their headsets.
“Sound check,” Mr. Blue barked. “Mr. White?”
“Check one, check two.”
“Acknowledged. Mr. Green?”
“Sound check, one, two.”
“Acknowledged,” Mr. Blue said as the Lincoln pulled up in front of Victoria jewelry store. The driver got out and opened the rear passenger door on his side. “Mr. Green.”
With that, Mr. Green exited the Chevy and walked quickly down the street toward the store. One very large black male exited the Lincoln and looked around before he walked around to the other side of the limo. While the driver approached the door of the shop, the black male opened the rear door on the car’s passenger side.
“Mr. White,” Mr. Blue said.
Mr. White started up the Chevy and maneuvered into position directly in front of the Lincoln. Mr. Blue and Mr. White exited the vehicle. The big man had opened the back door and was holding it open while his employer got out. He was a mousy little man in an expensive suit, clutching close to his chest the briefcase that was handcuffed to his waist.
Mr. Blue and Mr. White fell in behind them and pulled down their masks as they approached the door of the jewelry store.
Mr. Green had followed the driver into the store and pulled down his mask. He immediately removed a can of black paint from his pocket and sprayed the security camera. He stepped inside and pressed the barrel of his gun into the security guard’s back. The guard started to reach for his.45. “Don’t do it,” Mr. Green whispered in his ear. “You don’t make enough money to die for somebody else’s shit.” Realizing that an excellent point had been made, the security guard moved his hand away from his gun as Mr. Green pulled out his other gun and stood ready.
As big boy and his boss entered the store, Mr. Blue and Mr. White entered behind them. Mr. White locked the door and pulled down the shades. Mr. Blue put his foot in big boy’s back and kicked him to the floor.
“Everybody down!” Mr. Blue yelled, standing with arms spread eagle and a gun in each hand. The customers and the store employees looked at the three masked bandits and began to scream as they did as they were told and lowered themselves to the floor.
Mr. Green took the gun from the security guard and quickly removed the shells from the clip. Then he went to each of the three remaining security cameras and applied black spray paint to the lenses. With that task complete, he went into the back office and disabled the display case sensors, so when the glass was shattered no alarm would be activated.
Mr. Blue put his foot on big boy’s neck. “Mr. White,” he said into the mike.
Mr. White moved quickly to disarm and handcuff the big man. With the cameras, big boy and security disabled, Mr. Blue holstered one weapon and pulled out a stopwatch. “Two minutes.”
Mr. White and Mr. Green immediately took out large cloth bags. Mr. White took out a small but sturdy set of bolt cutters and cut the handcuff chain, freeing the briefcase from the mousy little man. She opened the case and examined the contents. As expected, the case contained un-mounted and uncut diamonds. Mr. White put the briefcase in her bag.
Mr. Green moved to the first targeted case, which was filled with gold and diamond-studded bracelets. Mr. Blue had briefed them thoroughly on which pieces they were interested in obtaining. With the butt of his gun, Mr. Green broke the glass. He picked up the designated pieces and placed them in the bag before moving on to the next case.
“Ninety seconds,” Mr. Blue said into the mike.
Mr. White moved to the necklace case. Once the glass was broken, she to removed the designated pieces and put them in her bag. The watches were next.
“One minute,” Mr. Blue announced.
Mr. White broke the display glass and quickly removed Rolexes and other expensive watches then placed them in the bag.
Mr. Green lit a cigar and moved to the display case that contained diamond rings. This case was different from the rest. Unlike the other alarm sensors, which were triggered by the sound of glass shattering, this case was armed with sensor beams that were invisible to the naked eye. If the beams broken in any way, they would set off an alarm. Entering a code, which they did not have, was the only way to disable this device.
Mr. Green removed a glasscutter and a suction cup from his pocket. He placed the suction cup on the glass and with the glasscutter, made four even cuts. He carefully lifted the glass from the case and placed it on the floor at his feet.
“Thirty seconds.”
Mr. Green blew smoke from the cigar into the display case. Once in contact with the beams, the smoke made them visible and minimized the risk. Cautiously, Mr. Green reached in and began to remove the designated rings, dropping them in the bag. Out the corner of his eye, Mr. Green could see the store manager reaching for something. “Movement, Mr. Blue. On my three.”
Mr. Blue moved toward the manager and pointed his gun at the store manager’s head. “I don’t want to kill you and you don’t want to die.” The manager stopped moving and Mr. Blue returned to his position.
With his attention diverted, Mr. Green accidentally allowed his hand to come in contact with one of the beams and set off the alarm. The manager reached for a gun; Mr. Green immediately pulled his gun and fired one shot in the direction of the manager. He stepped to
the manager, kicked the gun from his hand then began kicking him in the head.
“Time,” Mr. Blue said as he put away the stopwatch. “Mr. White, your assistance.”
While Mr. White moved toward Mr. Green, Mr. Blue removed the pump from under his coat. Mr. White grabbed Mr. Green. “We don’t have time for that, Mr. Green. Stay focused and on task,” Mr. White said to Mr. Green before moving back over to where Mr. Blue was standing.
Mr. White placed the bag she had filled with watches and necklaces at the feet of Mr. Blue. Then Mr. White made her way out of the store. She got in the car, took off the coat, and moved the Chevy into position for the three to make their escape.
With the alarm blaring, Mr. Green returned to the case and removed the remaining pieces, placing them in his bag. Mr. Green stepped to Mr. Blue and placed the bag at his feet.
Mr. Blue passed the pump to Mr. Green. With Mr. Green now covering the room, Mr. Blue dropped to one knee. He opened the briefcase and emptied its contents into one of the bags, then placed both bags into one and secured it to his waist. “Mr. White, report?”
“As expected, one security vehicle approaching from the north with two rental cops inside. Estimated time to police intervention, ninety-six seconds,” Mr. White returned.
Mr. Blue looked at Mr. Green and shook his head. Knowing that his error caused their current condition, Mr. Green mouthed the words my bad.
“Acknowledged, Mr. White. Assume defensive position one and stand by.”
“Acknowledged and in position, Mr. Blue,” Mr. White said.
Mr. Blue turned to his partner. “Don’t sweat it, Mr. Green. Shit happens. Let’s just get the fuck out of here.”
As Mr. Blue and Mr. Green exited the jewelry store, the rental cops got out of their vehicle. They cautiously approached the two masked men. The two rental cops raised and pointed their weapons. “Freeze!” one yelled.
“Drop your weapons!” screamed the other.
“Mr. Green, repel with zero causalities,” Mr. Blue said as he continued toward the Chevy.
“Acknowledged.” Mr. Green raised the pump and fired several shots in the direction of the rental cops. He fired over their heads and they took cover behind some cars. This allowed Mr. Blue to get to the Chevy. Mr. Blue removed the bag from around his waist and handed it to Mr. White.
“Estimated time to police intervention, Mr. White?”
“They should be here by now,” Mr. White replied.
Mr. Blue took out both of his 9 millimeters and began firing at the rental cops, who were still pinned down behind the cars. This allowed Mr. Green to make it safely into the Chevy. Mr. Blue heard the sound of police sirens approaching. He got in the Chevy. “Escape pattern five, Mr. White.”
“Acknowledged.” Mr. White dropped the Chevy into drive and sped off down Canal Street then headed northbound on Baxter Street. Two police cars were now in pursuit.
Mr. White drove the Chevy up Baxter Street and made a hard left against oncoming traffic. They were headed westbound on Grand Street with the police car maintaining its pursuit. Mr. White made a sharp right onto Lafayette Street and proceeded northbound. With the police closing in on their vehicle, Mr. Green opened the sunroof and came up firing several rounds from the pump. The police car dropped back as Mr. White made a left on Bleeker Street and another left onto Broadway. With the police momentarily out of sight, Mr. White stopped the car at the Broadway-Lafayette Street train station.
Mr. Blue and Mr. Green exited the Chevy and headed down the stairs into the subway. Mr. White took off again and turned into a parking garage. She quickly made her way to the top level and parked the car near the steps. Mr. White got out and ran to the stairwell and down the steps to the next level just as the police arrived at the Chevy.
She took her time walking to the escape car, a silver 2004 Lexus sedan. She got in the car and started it up. “Mr. Blue.”
“Go ahead with your traffic, Mr. White,” Mr. Blue yelled over the roar of the train.
“Exiting parking structure now. Proceeding to pick-up point.”
“Acknowledged, Mr. White. Drive safely,” Mr. Blue said.
Mr. White turned on the CD player in the car. Once again, Tupac’s music filled the car. Outlaw, Outlaw, Outlaw, the game ain’t the same. Outlaw, Outlaw, Outlaw, dear God, I wonder can you save me?
Chapter Two
Mr. Blue, whose real name was Travis Burns, and Mr. Green, a.k.a. Ronnie Grier, stood on the corner of 34th Street and 8th Avenue and waited for Mr. White, whose name was Jacquelyn Washington, to arrive. While they were on the train, they went in between the cars and took off their coats and jumpsuits and were now dressed in business suits and ties, but they still wore their gloves.
Travis looked at his watch and wondered what was taking Jackie so long.
“Where is she? She should be here by now,” Ronnie said.
“It’s almost lunchtime. She’s probably just stuck in traffic. Don’t worry, Ronnie. She’ll be here soon,” Travis said, looking at Ronnie and recalling the day’s events. This was the closest they had ever come to getting caught. They’d had some issues before, had to do a little shooting, but the cops had never been close enough to chase them.
This was never the life Travis had intended for himself. He had gone to college and graduated with a degree in computer science, a field that promised plenty of opportunity. Ronnie had earned a dual degree in business and finance, but now look at them. Now Travis was standing on the corner of 34th and 8th with a briefcase full of stolen jewelry, wondering what went wrong with his life.
It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way. Is this what his years of college had prepared him for? Once upon a time they had been three eager college students, ready to go out and conquer the world, armed with their degrees. They thought they were so prepared; they had even created their own list of rules to live by to aid in their success.
It all began one night when they were fucked up, smokin’ bomb-ass weed and drinking Hennessey, and listening to 2Pac. While listening to “Blasphemy” from Makaveli, The Don Killuminati: The 7 Day Theory, the trio heard 2Pac rapping about the rules his father taught him.
“M.O.B., money over bitches,” Travis said. “That’s some deep shit.”
“That’s some true shit,” Jackie added quickly.
“I wonder what the other rules are? He only told us two,” Ronnie said.
“I guess we’ll never know,” Travis said as he hit the blunt and chuffed.
“Why not?” Ronnie asked.
“Cause Tupac is dead, asshole,” Jackie stated flatly and laughed.
“No, he ain’t,” Ronnie said and stood up.
“Yes, he is, Ronnie. I saw the autopsy pictures,” Travis threw in.
“That don’t mean nothing. Pictures can be doctored. My cousin edits film for the networks and he tells me all the time about the wild shit they have him do to put whatever type of spin they want on those images. If they can do it with film, they can do it with stills,” Ronnie argued. He hit the blunt. “If he’s dead, why wasn’t there no funeral?” He too started chuffing.
“’Cause his momma had him cremated,” Jackie explained, taking the blunt from a still chuffing Ronnie.
“Yeah, I know. That’s my whole fuckin’ point. Pac never said anything about crematin’ his ass. He said bury him a G. He said bury him with ammunition, weed and shells. Y’all niggas know that shit just like I do. Pac ain’t dead,” Ronnie stated again.
As the CD played, the debate raged on for almost half an hour before Travis said, “Look, whether he’s dead or not, those are still some words we need to live by.”
“Why? We ain’t no thug niggas,” Jackie said. “We’re college students listening to Mr. Makaveli puttin’ it down thug style.”
“True that. I was just thinking about puttin’ y’all out so I can study for an economics test,” Ronnie said.
“Yeah, yeah, I know that,” Travis said. “But listen to what Pac’s sayin’. You can’t tell me
some of that shit don’t apply to us.”
“He damn sure right about that, Jackie,” Ronnie agreed.
“Rule one: Get your cash on, M.O.B. That’s money over bitches ’cause they bleed envy,” Travis stated with passion. “Ain’t no truer shit than that.”
Both Travis and Ronnie turned to Jackie.
“As long as we can all agree the term ‘bitches’ don’t necessarily apply to women only,” Jackie said. “’Cause you know sometimes you niggas can be bitches too.”
“Agreed,” both Travis and Ronnie said.
“What about rule two, Tee?” Jackie asked, referring to Tupac’s second rule in “Blasphemy”. “You tryin’ to say you need to watch us? Like you don’t trust us?”
“No, that’s not what I’m sayin’. You two are like blood to me. I know none of us will ever betray the other. What I’m sayin’ is that you gotta watch your homies, because everybody you roll with that you may think is your friend, ain’t.”
“True that,” Ronnie said as he poured himself another glass of Henny. “Everybody you think is cool, ain’t.” He passed the bottle to Travis. “But we still eight rules short.”
Travis poured himself a drink and filled Jackie’s glass. “So, we’ll make up our own rules.” He got up and walked over to Ronnie’s desk to get a piece of paper. He returned to his spot and began to write. “All right, we got rules one and two. What else? Remember, these are our rules. Shit that applies to us and what we’re tryin’ to do. It ain’t gotta be that outlaw immortal, thugged-out shit.”
With Tupac’s lyrics as their inspiration, they created a list to fit the bright futures they believed they would have.
“Get off your ass if you plan to be rich definitely needs to be on the list,” Jackie said, and they all agreed. Travis wrote it down.
“I got one,” Ronnie said as he got up and changed the CD. He put in Thug Life. “Bury Me a G” jumped off.
“Stay smart,” Ronnie suggested, “’cause it’s all about survival.”