Blood of a Boss III

by Askari

  ‘Yeah, I remember,” Egypt quickly replied. “But you trippin’ right now, Zai. How the fuck you gon’ take sides wit’ Sonny and ride against me?”

  “Because we owe him. If it wasn’t for the night that we broke into his mom’s car and he found us the next morning, where the fuck would we be?” Zaire shouted. “Him and Miss Annie took us in. They fed us and gave us somewhere to sleep. This nigga damn near raised us, and now you want me to help you kill him? Nigga, fuck that.”

  Zaire gently applied pressure to the trigger, but before he had the chance to squeeze, he saw The Reaper sliding up on the driver’s side door. A 12-gauge shotty was clutched in his hands and the sawed-off barrel was aimed at the back of Egypt’s head.

  “What the…”

  Boom.

  The driver’s side window exploded with force, and before they knew it, the smell of fresh blood and gunpowder permeated the SUV. Sonny snatched open the passenger’s side door and the twin brother’s fell to the icy cold ground. Sonny’s fur-lined hood was pulled down over his face, and he was looking around the parking lot checking to see if anyone heard the loud blast of the shotgun. Surprisingly, nobody seemed to be paying attention. But in the corner of his left eye he noticed the two teenaged girls who were working inside of the Checkers. Their faces were pressed against the glass front window and their hungry eyes were fixed on the Bronco.

  “Double R,” he looked at his hit man, “make them nosey ass bitches mind they fuckin’ business.”

  The Reaper spun around and aimed the shotty at the large window, and almost immediately the two girls ran towards the back of the restaurant screaming bloody murder.

  Satisfied that the two witnesses wouldn’t be able to identify the black Suburban that was parked down the block, Sonny raised his hand in the air, signaling for Nipsy to bring the SUV up to the parking lot. He then looked down and scowled at the blood covered twins. “Fuck is you lookin’ all surprised for?”

  “N-N-Naw,” the twin stuttered. He was trapped between his dead brother and the concrete, and his eardrums were ringing from the loud blast of the shotgun. “I was about... I was about to smoke Egypt, but I never... I never got the chance.” He shook away the lingering dizziness and squinted his eyes to adjust his sight. “The shotty,” he continued, “it hit him up ‘fore I had the chance to do it myself. I was rockin’ witchu, bro, you gotta believe me. I was gonna smoke him, I swear.”

  Sonny looked at him and gritted his teeth. All of the love and devotion that he once had for the twin brothers he found sleeping in the back seat of his mother’s car was long gone, and the only thing that could rectify their disloyalty was death.

  The Suburban pulled up beside him and he snatched open the back passenger’s side door. Looking at Nipsy, he said, “Help me put these mutha’fuckas in the back seat. And hurry the fuck up. We gotta get in the wind ‘fore the boys come.”

  “A’ight,” Nipsy replied as he hopped out of the truck and quickly got to work. After pulling Egypt’s mutilated corpse off of Zaire, he grabbed him under the arms and lifted his dead weight into the truck. “And Double R,” Sonny looked at The Reaper, “check inside of the Bronco and find this nigga’s cell phone. I need to see if he saved any text messages between him and that bitch, so that way I can tell how long these mutha’fuckas been plottin’ on me.”

  As The Reaper ransacked the SUV, Sonny pulled out a pair of zip-ties and knelt down beside Zaire.

  “Brozay, you gotta believe me,” Zaire pleaded as Sonny tightened the zip-ties around his wrist. He wanted to put up a fight and struggle to get free, but he didn’t want to make things worse. His best option was to keep cool and talk his way out of it. “I’m tellin’ you, Sonny, I ain’t have nothin’ to do wit’ this shit, bro.”

  “Pussy, stop lyin’,” Sonny snapped at him as he snatched him off of the ground and tossed him in the back of the Suburban.

  “I swear on my flag,” Zaire shouted. He was lying on the floor of the Suburban face first, right beside his dead brother. “Sonny, you gotta believe me, I didn’t cross you.”

  “Nigga, I saw the fuckin’ video,” Sonny shouted back. “When you pulled up and went inside of the house, Daphney was already there. So, if you wasn’t try’na cross me, why the fuck did it take so long for you to call me?”

  “I didn’t know it was Daphney,” Zaire lied. “The only thing I knew was that Egypt had a bitch in his room, and I could hear ‘em fuckin’. I never went inside of the room, so how the fuck was I ‘posed to know it was Daph?”

  Sonny scowled at him, and then forcefully slammed the back door. Looking at The Reaper, he said, “Double R, did you find it?”

  “Yeah,” The Reaper nodded his head and held up the iPhone. “I got it right here.” He tossed him the cell phone, then hopped back in the Bronco and started the engine. “Yo, we gotta get up outta here,” he said while reaching over to close the passenger’s side door. “I can hear the sirens. They’re only a couple of blocks away.”

  “I know,” Sonny said. “I can hear them mutha’fuckas, too.” He climbed in the passenger side of the Suburban and Nipsy pulled out of the parking lot with the old Bronco close behind.

  “So, where we takin’ these niggas?” Nipsy asked.

  “We takin’ they asses to The Swamp,” Sonny spoke in a cold voice. “I already talked to The Butcher and told him to have everything ready.”

  “The Swamp,” Zaire shouted like a bitch, knowing all too well what happened to the mutha’fuckas who were taken to the rural pig farm in Bucks County. “Come on, bro, please. I’m tellin’ you the truth and I can prove it.”

  “You can prove it?” Sonny looked at him skeptically. “Prove it, how?”

  “All you gotta do is call Daphney from Egypt’s cell phone and let me talk to her. Me and Egypt sound just alike, so she won’t know the difference.”

  “And what the fuck is that gonna prove?”

  “Hold up, bro, you ain’t let me finish. Whatever she had goin’ on wit’ Egypt was just between them, so when I mention me, I can guarantee that she ain’t gon’ have nothin’ to say. And that’s because I never had nothin’ to do wit’ this shit.”

  Sonny thought about it for a second, then shrugged his shoulders. “A’ight, but I’ma tell you right now, if this stankin’ ass bitch says anything about you knowin’ what was goin’ on, I’ma chop ya ass up myself.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Back at Judge Johnson’s Estate

  “Who the hell is that?” Ahmed asked as he pulled into the driveway and parked his Escalade behind G.J.’s Lexus.

  “Who the hell is who?” Mustafa asked. He was sitting in the passenger’s seat gently caressing his M-16.

  “The mutha’fucka right there,” Ahmed overstated. He was pointing towards the west wing of the house where a dark shadowy figure was crouched down and creeping in the opposite direction. “Come on, let’s get his ass.” He threw the transmission in park, snatched up his M-16, and hopped out of the truck.

  Mustafa was right behind him. His M-16 was cradled in both hands, and by the time Aziz and Shabazz were out of the truck, he and Ahmed were halfway across the driveway.

  Shabazz looked at Aziz and nodded his head. Aziz returned the gesture, and simultaneously they reached behind their backs and pulled out their .41 calibers.

  Gangsta was headed back to his truck when the dark colored SUV pulled into the driveway. The federal warrant and extradition papers for Joaquin were safely tucked away in his back pocket, and his P89 was tightly gripped in his right hand. The gunshot wound to his arm was itching and burning, but yet and still he was ready for action.

  “F.B.I.,” Ahmed shouted. He was aiming his assault rifle at the man dressed in all black, and quickly rushing towards him. “Get on the fuckin’ ground.”

  Gangsta took off running, zig-zagging his way to the back yard. His hoody was pulled down low and he was hoping that the four men didn’t see his face.

  “Goddamnit!” Ahmed complained. He was running
as fast as he could, and aiming his M-16, looking for the best shot possible.

  Gangsta was in the zone. He tripped over a snow-covered lawn chair, fell on his ass, hopped back up, and slipped inside of the house through the back door. He was sweating profusely and desperately trying to catch his breath. As he leaned against the kitchen counter, his iPhone vibrated in his hoody pocket, and he quickly grabbed it. Looking at the screen, he saw that the caller was Big Angolo.

  “About time,” he said to himself as he took a seat at the kitchen table. “Sheesh!”

  When the four gunmen reached the back corner of the house, they stopped running and crouched down against the back wall. There was simple no telling what lay around the corner of the house and they didn’t want to walk into an ambush.

  “Gimmie your coat,” Ahmed demanded. He was looking at Mustafa and gesturing for him to hurry up.

  As Mustafa peeled out of his coat, Ahmed looked at Aziz and Shabazz. “I’m gonna use the coat as a decoy. Instead of us moving too fast and stumbling into something crazy, I’m gonna toss the coat into the back yard. If the son-of-a-bitch starts shooting, I want the two of you to run around to the other side of the house. So, that way we can block him in from both sides.”

  “All right,” Shabazz said. “But, what if he doesn’t take the bait?”

  “If he doesn’t,” Ahmed shrugged his shoulders, “fuck it, we’ll just storm the back yard, two at a time, and take his ass down.”

  The two men nodded their heads, and then looked at Mustafa, who was handing over his winter coat. “So, let’s go over this one more time,” Shabazz said. “If the mutha’fucka doesn’t shoot at the coat, we’re gonna storm the back yard?”

  “Precisely,” Ahmed told him. “Me and Mustafa are gonna take the lead, so just fall back and cover us from behind.” He looked at Mustafa. “You ready to do this?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Alright,” Ahmed nodded his head. “In three... two... one.” He tossed the coat into the back yard, expecting to hear gunfire, but the only thing he heard was silence. “I guess we’ll have to rock out with Plan B.” He tightened his grasp on the assault rifle and looked at Mustafa. “I’m gonna go low, so cover me from up top.” He did a dive role around the corner and popped up on his right knee, crouched down and ready to fire. Mustafa was right behind him, but they quickly realized the back yard was empty.

  “Look,” Mustafa whispered. He was pointing at the foot prints in the snow. “He went inside of the house.”

  Ahmed looked down at the fresh foot prints, and then looked up at the back door. It was slightly ajar and the welcome mat on the back patio was crooked and disheveled. “Come on, we can’t let him get away.”

  As they approached the back door and stepped inside of the house, the first thing they noticed was Gangsta. He was dressed in all black and sitting at the kitchen table talking on his iPhone.

  “Gangsta?” Ahmed asked, wondering what the hell was going on. “That was you? Why did you take off running and not say anything? We could have killed you.” He lowered is M-16, and Mustafa did the same.

  Gangsta looked at the two agents and held up his index finger, signaling for them to wait a second. “Everything’s in order,” he spoke into his cell phone. “I did my part. The rest is up to you.”

  “What the fuck is going on?” Mustafa asked, looking at Gangsta with a raised brow. “Where’s G.J.?”

  “He’s waitin’ for y’all,” Gangsta replied as he disconnected the call and stuffed the iPhone back in his hoody pocket.

  “He’s waiting for us?” Ahmed asked, giving Gangsta a skeptical look. “He’s waiting for us, where?”

  “In the depths of hell,” Gangsta said with a devilish grin.

  Shabazz and Aziz, who were standing behind the two agents, took a step closer and pressed the barrels of their guns to the back of their domes. They knew all along that the man dressed in all black was Gangsta. Prior to pulling up to the house, they were sitting in the back of the Escalade secretly communicating with him through text messages. They told him how Grip and Muhammad were planning to kill Sonny, and gave him the run down on the potential beef with the Sinaloas. In turn, Gangsta told them about the latest information pertaining to the murders of his parents. He also made it clear that he needed Ahmed and Mustafa to come inside of the house. So, that way, they wouldn’t have to worry about any potential witnesses.

  Ahmed was completely stunned, and the feeling of cold steel pressed against the back of his wig made his eyes pop like golf balls. “You’re not gonna get away with this.”

  “I already did,” Gangsta confirmed as he took a couple of steps backwards. “Aziz and Shabazz,” he looked at his two hitters. “Do ‘em.”

  Boc.

  Boc.

  Two clouds of a bloody red mist erupted from their front of their foreheads and the two agents crumbled to the floor.

  “So, what’s the next move?” Aziz asked.

  “Whatchu think?” Gangsta said as he stepped over the two agents and headed out the back door. “We gotta find Sonny and let him know what’s goin’ on.”

  ***

  Jal Laredo Prison Camp, Laredo Mexico

  The Catholic chapel on the ground floor of the Level-2 prison was desolate and quiet. The aroma of burning incense and scented candles permeated the sanctuary, giving the room an instant feeling of comfort, and for the first time in his adult life, Joaquin Alverez was ready to make amends for his painful and destructive past. Standing in the threshold of the double oak wood doors, he was draped in a gray jump-suit and wearing a pair of shower shoes. His normally clean shaved face had a five o’clock shadow and his long, Indian hair was slicked back to the nape of his neck.

  When he stepped inside of the chapel, the first thing that grabbed his attention was the large crucifix that hung on the wall directly behind the pulpit. With bright, wide eyes he turned his head from left to right, taking in the pastel paintings of the most renowned Catholic Saints, and then settled his gaze on the confessional booth in the back left corner. The large structure was eight feet in length, six feet in width, and was pieced together from the stained wood of an English sycamore. A shiny, brass column divided the booth into two separate chambers, and each chamber was tucked behind a velvet curtain.

  The Sinaloa boss walked down the aisle and slowly approached the confessional. His violent ways and corrupt lifestyle couldn’t have been further from the Catholic religion, but if the Biblical teachings he learned as a child had the slightest semblance of the truth, he knew that he needed to make atonement for his sins. Not for the sake of himself, but for the sake of his son, Roberto.

  After stepping inside of the confessional, he closed the curtain and took a seat on the wooden bench. The small chamber was no bigger than a telephone booth. A 10 X 12 inch window was built into the wall on his left hand side, and a black screen was fixed into the frame. On the other side of the screen, the institutional chaplain, Father Diaz, was gently caressing his rosary beads and quietly reciting a prayer for world peace. A burning candle was positioned on the wooden shelf beside him, and the flickering wick illuminated the booth with a dismal glow. After saying “Amen” and kissing the front his rosary, he marked his body with the symbol of the Holy Cross, and turned his face towards the window. “Yes, my son.”

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Joaquin requested in a low voice. The palms of his hands were clammy and moist, and he was too embarrassed to the look the priest in his face. “I have committed great atrocities for the better part of my life, and I’m afraid that my son is going to be punished for my evil ways. He was recently murdered and I was hoping that you could pray for his soul.”

  Father Diaz took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, recognizing the face of the man who was sitting in the next booth. Not only was he the most dangerous man in all of Mexico, he was the hand that pulled the strings on “Diablo,” and the middle finger that was aimed at the sky telling God to “Fuck off.”

  �
�Father,” Joaquin continued, “is there any atonement for the soul of my son?”

  Carefully choosing his words, Father Diaz looked straight ahead and told the little man what he wanted to hear. “The Bible teaches us that a son shall inherit the sins of his father, but nonetheless, our God is a God who loves. He’s a God of understanding, a God who forgives.”

  “So, my son will be forgiven?”

  “Ah, yes, he’ll definitely be forgiven. Just ah, say three Hail Mary’s, and give a donation to the church in whatever way you see fit.” He blew out the prayer candle and quickly departed from the booth. “God bless you, my son.”

  When Joaquin returned to his cell, he lay on top of his bed and fished out the cell phone that was buried inside of his pillow. After pressing the POWER button, he punched in his security code, and noticed that he’d missed two calls. One of the missed calls came from Chatchi, and the other one came from Grip. Completely bypassing the latter, he dialed the numbers to Chatchi’s cell phone and placed the phone against his ear.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  “Nola,” Chatchi answered in a loud voice. He was still at the gentleman’s club, coked up, and anxiously pacing back and forth throughout his office.

  “Mijo, now is not the time for you to be treating your nose,” Joaquin scolded him. “You need to be focused on the issue at hand.”

  “I am,” Chatchi propounded. “And just so you know, I got to the bottom of what happened to Roberto.”

  “It was the Italians, wasn’t it?”

  “Unfortunately,” Chatchi replied, “that’s not the case. The Gervinos had no involvement whatsoever, but I know who does.”

  “Who?” Joaquin demanded. “Tell it to me now.” He was so mad that his English was beginning to break down.

  “It was The Moreno Crime Family,” Chatchi revealed. “They were actin’ on the orders of Poncho Nunez.”

  “Gervin?” Joaquin questioned. “Acting on the orders of Poncho Nunez? That doesn’t make any sense. Gervin is superior to Poncho, so why would he take orders from him?”