by Evie Rhodes
He removed the knife from his pocket, sticking the blade to Tawney’s face, drawing an imaginary line with it from the tip of her ear to her mouth. His eyes glazed over. “You ain’t half bad-looking, you know that?”
Tawney turned her face away. Rasheem yanked it back. “I was told you’re one of them upscale uppity niggas, the kind that read the Wall Street Journal. They also told me you were smart. Now would be a good time for you to put that to use. Don’t ever turn away from me when I speak, ho.”
He slapped her so hard her head reeled back. Tawney tasted blood in her mouth. But she was glad that nothing felt loose.
“You hear me?” he said while yanking on a fistful of her hair. Tawney didn’t answer.
Rasheem spat in her face. “When I speak you answer.” He slapped her again, then put his mouth to her ear so she could clearly hear him. “Did I hear you speak?”
Tawney managed a tightly controlled, hate-filled “Yes.”
“That’s better, dog.”
Mitchell stepped in front of Tawney, pushing Rasheem to the side. He had a sadistic streak a mile long when it came to women. He had little to no respect for them, mostly because he’d watched his mama trick during most of his childhood. He hadn’t been in school for two years since he was twelve. When he was there he was a complete terror. The teachers had long ago begun to pass him on just to get rid of him.
He didn’t care. One day he did them all a favor and just stopped going. All he wanted to do was be tough and hard anyway. Besides, when Ballistic’s reign was over he wanted to control Newark.
His aspiration was pure cash. He still listened to old-school Wu-Tang. That noise blared out of his Jeep when he was rolling down Clinton Avenue in search of his crew.
His favorite song was “C.R.E.A.M.” (Cash Rules Everything Around Me). The song was a classic because no matter how much time went by he knew it was all the same just like the song said. He broke out rapping the lyrics of the song while Tawney stared at him. “Cash rules everything around me, everything around me, dollar, dollar bill, y’all.”
He stooped down in front of Tawney. “So how much cash are you worth, Ms. Lady? How much can I get for you?”
Tawney shrank back from him. Sensually he stuck his finger in her mouth, swirling it around. Big mistake. Tawney bit down on his finger until she heard bones crack. Mitchell hollered, snatching his finger from her mouth. Red-hot heat swiftly ran through his body as his anger surged.
He punched Tawney like she was a man on the street. With that Tawney scrambled to her feet, swinging back. She threw him a couple of good blows. She was fueled by pure hatred and the disgust that this boy—because to her he was just a young punk boy—had no respect for her and she was a grown woman.
There was no way she was going to just let him have his way, so she decided to go out fighting. She swung on him, catching him square upside the head. Rasheem, who had been watching this exchange, was astonished at this wildcat broad. He couldn’t believe his eyes. She was crazy. They didn’t have time for this crap.
He dove for her legs, tackling her to the ground while Mitchell landed blow after blow to her body. But Tawney was strong and although she was at a disadvantage she was still kicking, screaming, biting, and throwing punches.
Finally tiring of her, Mitchell started to choke her. He had knocked out many a broad in his life just for getting smart with him, and this one thought she could go toe to toe with him. She was insane. This ho had lost it.
His hands were around her throat and he squeezed tighter and tighter. He was in a silent rage as he squeezed tighter. Tawney grew weaker and weaker from the lack of oxygen.
It was finally Rasheem who came to his senses as a picture of Ballistic flashed through his mind. They had a direct order not to mess with Shannon Davenport. Rasheem had a feeling that although that order hadn’t extended to Shannon’s wife, by virtue of her being his wife, if they killed her it might somehow interfere with Ballistic’s plans and order.
If they did that they were dead meat. Better to err on the side of wisdom. Rasheem grabbed Mitchell from behind. “Yo, man, stop! You’re going to kill her! We can’t kill her!”
There was also the issue of the personal vendetta, which was a totally different spin that could get them body-dropped and killed as well if they blew this.
“I’m telling you, Mitchell.”
Mitchell was so intently involved with watching Tawney lose air while her face changed colors that it was as though he were on a different planet and couldn’t even hear Rasheem.
Rasheem gave a mighty yank from behind, pulling Mitchell completely off her, loosening his death grip around Tawney’s neck in the process.
Tawney could barely gasp for air. Her entire stomach heaved from the violence, and its contents flew out of her mouth all over the floor.
She was still alive but she’d rather not have been. After all, this was only her first go-round with the devil. The highlight was yet to come.
Proverbs 1: 18 and 19: And they lay wait for their own blood; they lurk privily for their own lives. So are the ways of every one that is greedy of gain; which taketh away the life of the owners thereof.
Chapter 31
Trey and Warren P. watched as Ballistic paced back and forth. The chips were falling in place to his liking.
Trey spoke on Ballistic’s cue that he was able to do so. “Rasheem and Mitchell have Davenport’s wife. It’s a personal favor in honor of Spence’s death.”
Ballistic nodded. “It is an ambitious move.”
He was already aware of the circumstances and had been waiting to see how long it would take before the 411 was relayed to him. He knew they were pretty much on schedule as it should be.
“She’s in a safe spot. We grabbed her off the street earlier. She should keep for a while.”
Ballistic stroked his face. “I am rather pleased at the turn of events. It could work to our favor.”
“How so?” Warren P. chimed in. Trey shot him a warning glance. Ballistic didn’t miss it.
They were to speak only when spoken to. It was Ballistic’s unwritten rule. Ballistic was thinking to himself that Trey had better school Warren. If he violated one more time he would swim with the fishes as the Italians used to like to say.
“You’ve done well.” Ballistic went on as though Warren P. had never spoken. “There is one more piece left.”
They both stood at attention. This time Warren P. had the good sense to keep his mouth shut. He had detected imminent danger on his last question, and Trey’s warning glance had reminded him of Ballistic’s “speak only when you’re spoken to,” rule. He knew it wouldn’t pay to be so zealous again.
“Take the woman to the old storefront on Clinton Avenue. Send Rasheem to Rico with the message about the woman and her whereabouts. Have him charge Rico for the information.”
Trey smiled at the simple brilliance of Ballistic’s plan. With a lift of his head, Ballistic indicated Trey could speak. He could feel him brimming to put the pieces together.
He rather liked Trey and considered him the wisest of the crew. He was seriously considering giving him a coveted position one day. His throat gurgled as he waited for Trey’s response.
“Yeah, Rico knows Davenport will look for his wife and he won’t make Rasheem’s connection to us.”
“Exactly.”
Ballistic limped over to the chair with his cane to sit down. Immediately his German shepherd was at his side.
“Make sure that Shannon Davenport without a lot of effort knows where to find his wife. We’ll be waiting for Rico when he shows up. Leave a trail on the kidnapping of Shannon’s wife that leads straight to Rico. That’ll clear the guilty party.”
Ballistic waved his cane in the air. “I’m going to call in my markers with Rico’s crew. What’s left of them, that is. People owe me. It’s time. Rico DeLeon Hudson will soon learn that I have purchased all that is his. It’s time to take baby boy out for the count. I don’t wish to waste any more
time toying with him.”
Ballistic agitatedly waved his cane in the air once again. “Leave me!”
There were times when he had enough of people. He was very much a loner. And this was one of those times.
Besides, he was being called on for a higher duty by that to which he paid his allegiance. He needed time to prepare for that ritual. He needed a council with the Darkling.
Chapter 32
Tawney was huddled on the floor in a tight ball in a corner of the garage when Trey and Warren P. returned. Trey glanced at her, assessing the damage. She was still breathing, so these two young bucks were still within their parameters. Although by the look of things they were skirting it pretty close.
They had made a mess of the pretty lady.
Trey brought them up to date. “I had a talk with Ballistic. He wants you to go see Rico Hudson.”
“Why?” Rasheem asked, puzzled.
Their piece hadn’t been connected to Rico at all even though word was all over the street that he and Shannon Davenport were beefing.
“He wants you to sell Rico information.”
Rasheem raised an eyebrow. He glanced sideways at Mitchell. Mitchell lit a cigarette, listening intently. There might be a promotion or something in it for them. He couldn’t wait to start getting some real cream. ’Cause cash ruled everything around him, and that was word.
“What kind of information?” Rasheem said.
“The final destination of Tawney Davenport. The old Clinton Avenue storefront.”
“Yeah, we can do that. Rico will buy a little freelancing on our part. He knows we’re about the cream.” Rasheem grinned in Mitchell’s direction, ecstatic at the opportunity to impress the all-important Ballistic.
Trey purposely hadn’t told them about Ballistic’s thinking the kidnapping played right into his plans, because he didn’t want them getting bigheaded.
“Tell him you found a way to smoke Shannon Davenport out for him but it is going to cost him. It ain’t no freebie. He’ll jump at it because he’s bugging about his girl’s death and he can’t get his hands on Ballistic. He’s doing petty stuff for revenge.”
“That’s word,” Warren P. said.
“We’re getting the word on his actions, but he ain’t even in the ballpark, so we know he’s frustrated,” Trey said, calling out Rico’s situation.
“He’s gonna be looking to waste some blood just to quench his thirst.”
“Also you need to float the word over the wire, with the trail leading to Rico for the kidnapping of Tawney Davenport. We’re going to reinforce Shannon’s thought that Rico grabbed her. Also the wind doesn’t need to blow in the direction from which it’s really coming. You feeling me?”
“We’re feeling you.” Rasheem spoke for both of them.
“Got it?”
“Got it!” Mitchell and Rasheem replied in unison.
Trey handed them a huge knot of fresh one-hundred-dollar bills, then left the garage again on foot.
When Trey was gone Rasheem snatched Tawney to her feet. “It’s time to roll on to your final destination, Ms. Thang.”
Looking at him, Tawney saw nothing but death in his eyes.
Chapter 33
In one of the safe houses Rico, Temaine, and a few of the crew members were sitting around. There was a lot of nervous energy in the room. Sean, a short skinny dude who talked too much, stood watching Temaine.
He couldn’t stand the sight of Temaine, never could. To him Temaine was arrogant and sly. He reminded him of a damned weasel. Slippery when it’s wet. Sean never did trust him. Also he was sick of Temaine and that damned piece of licorice.
He always had that mess stuck in his mouth no matter what the situation was. He looked like an overgrown kid from day care. It was grating on Sean’s nerves just looking at him. “Why you always sucking on that licorice, man?”
Temaine jumped up from his seat. He didn’t say a word. He shoved Sean clean off his feet. Sean fell backward over some chairs, looking up at Temaine in surprise.
Temaine pulled his gun from his waistband, putting it to Sean’s temple. “Shut up, nigga! I don’t want to hear your stupid mouth no more.”
It was kind of comical in a way because the piece of licorice was hanging from Temaine’s mouth, yet the gun coupled with the frown on his face meant serious trouble.
Angrily Temaine clicked off the safety and twirled the barrel. The other crew members rushed over yelling for Temaine to knock it off and take the gun away from Sean’s head.
Rico’s voice reigned supreme in the room, although he wasn’t the least bit excited. In fact Rico was like the ultimate calm before a storm. He didn’t even raise his voice. It was just the deadly serious tone of authority that laced it, which caught a person’s attention. “Take the gun away from his head, Temaine.”
Temaine’s finger itched on the trigger. Rico stepped closer. He snapped his fingers. “Now, Temaine.”
Temaine looked down into the sweat-drenched face of Sean. Slowly he removed the gun from his temple. He put the gun back into his waistband, climbing off him.
“I got a plan. Don’t get antsy on me now,” Rico said to him.
Temaine’s breathing slowed down a bit. He took a blue scarf from his jacket pocket. He tied it around his head. “I want Shannon Davenport dead now. The police are all over him. Not tomorrow. Not the day after. I want him now.”
Temaine turned to him. “And Ballistic too,” he bluffed. “Their time is running out. There is no more time. The time is now.”
Rico let him run his course. “I’ll be calling the shots around here, li’l brother,” he said.
“Then start calling them now, blood,” Temaine retorted.
Rico made eye contact around the room. Guns clicked quickly into place, all trained on Temaine.
Temaine looked wildly around the room realizing too late that he had overstayed his welcome. “Oh? So it’s like that, Rico? I been kicking it on the block with you nigga since we was knee-high. And you wanna take a nigga out like that, huh?”
Rico snapped his fingers. The guns disappeared. He took Temaine’s head in both of his hands. He kissed him on the forehead and then took a step back. “In God we Trust.”
A shot rang out from behind Temaine, hitting him in the back of the head. It dropped him to his knees. He looked up at Rico with shock in his eyes. He had played his last hand. “Why?” was the last word he uttered.
“Because you flipped sides, li’l brother,” were the last words he heard.
Grief briefly flickered in Rico’s eyes.
The words “rockabye, baby” instead of being screeched were being whispered in the winds of destruction. The bodies of the black-targeted babies were piling up. And the children of the damned unknowingly were preparing to fight back.
Marcus Simms got up from his spot outside the window where he had witnessed Temaine’s demise.
Aisha, the poor child, was drenched in sweat. Great rolls of it cascaded down from her hairline into her face. Her vocal cords were still locked in silence. Yet though she couldn’t speak on her sketchpad she continued to write in red marker. Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!
Unknowingly she was unlocking a floodgate in the spirit. She couldn’t talk but she could write. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, she scribbled in a frenzy.
Chapter 34
The Past
Satan is a liar. There is no truth in him. Although this has been mentioned throughout scriptural history time and time again, it is still the greatest form of deception known to man. As well as the most unaccepted one.
Neither the elders of the past nor the generations that would come forth into the present, or their offspring, which wound up being the children in Newark, were any different.
None of them believed any more than the rest of the world, and in keeping with that was the foundation of their disbelief in which most of their terror was laid as they lacked the power of bellief. The tracks of blood that were currently lining the streets of Newark, New Jersey, p
oured from their bodies.
The spirit demon rose up like a mist, shaking the trees just like it did when Jazz died in the gutter of their streets. Marcus Simms saw it. But still none of them would grasp the true source.
So when one woman’s child was wrenched from her grasp, and sacrificed before her very eyes not moments before her own gruesome death, and when she vowed with her last breath of life to swap her soul in exchange for a haunting revenge, the people in attendance thought it was folly.
They thought it was a desperate woman’s last cry for vengeance. Well, they were wrong. Satan, who is known by more names than can be listed here, but suffice it to say he is the same, was present as he always has been in the world’s darkest hours.
He is of the principalities of darkness. He is the author of spiritual wickedness in high places. Ephesians chapter 6. It’s all there. We wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers of darkness, against the rulers of darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.
But they just didn’t believe.
So when Ms. Dorothy, as she was known, pierced the realms with her exchange request to become a spirit demon in exchange for her soul, her request was both heard and granted. It was that simple.
The rest, as you’ve been following—is history.
The night Ms. Dorothy and her baby were slaughtered is written in the spirit of black magic. There was a storm the likes of cats and dogs that night as water poured, not fell, from the skies. The night was as dark as a black ink spot, the kind of black where nothing moved, an inky, sticky black.
Streaks of lightning danced through the dark, like lit batons that had been strewn through the sky. The thunder rolled and cracked, like a sonic boom not from the heavens but from right there on earth, right next to your ear.
Everybody heard it. Including Mama, Papa, and Nana Mama, who were barely past the thumb-sucking, bed-wetting age at that time, and were the best of friends along with some of their other friends from the neighborhood who were now long since dead.