Mason swings a left. “When I told you that I couldn’t live without you.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” He draws in a deep breath. “Look. It ain’t like me to beat around the bush, but me and you . . . well, shit is complicated. NahwhatImean?”
I debate on whether to let him off the hook. “No. Not really.”
He laughs. “You’re not going to make this shit easy on me, are you?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Still laughing, he shakes his head. “A’ight. Cool. Well, here goes. I have feelings for you, Willow. Putting all cards on the table, I always have, but Bishop made it clear a long time ago that you were off-limits.”
“What?” I shift around in my seat, but then I remember something that Smokestack had said. “I don’t believe this. First off, why in the hell would you discuss something like that with my brother?”
“Are you kidding me? That nigga stepped to me from the jump. He did that shit with damn near everybody back in the day. Hell, he even fucked up a few niggas who said anything out of pocket around him. He even checked Cousin Skeet one time.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Fuck naw. He ain’t never liked that nigga. Me neither, you want to know the truth, but the nigga is a handy muthafucka to know. I understand why you didn’t want to deal with him while I was . . . out of commission. But business is business. NahwhatImean?”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
“You’d rather put a bullet in the center of his head?”
“I wouldn’t pass it up if the opportunity presents itself.”
“See. This is what I’m talking about. You always say exactly how you feel. There’s nothing fake or phony about you, Willow. Unlike a lot of females I’ve dealt with in the past.” He shakes his head.
“Like Melanie?”
He shrugs.
“Yo, look. I’m flattered, I guess. But don’t be looking at me like I’m some fucking consolation prize. Old girl played you—oh, well. Shake that shit off and move on.”
“Oh, it’s like that?”
“What? I’m supposed to faint at your feet because once upon a time you might have stepped to me, but because my big, bad brother stepped up, you changed your mind? Get the fuck out of here with that bullshit before I shoot you my damn self.”
“A’ight. That shit didn’t come out right.”
“You don’t say.” Our conversation is cut short when we arrive at our spot. We’re barely up in the lot before these muthafuckas unleash heavy artillery at our asses. Instantly, I hit the automatic window and then I’m up out of my seat and on the passenger side door, returning fire. Bullets whiz by my head. A new surge of adrenaline gives me a high that you just can’t buy on the streets.
RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!
RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!
Once these niggas see how much firepower is being returned, they all scatter like cockroaches when a light comes on. “Damn muthafuckas. Where ya going?” I laugh while enjoying the feel of the kickback from the semiautomatic. I don’t waste a fuckin’ shot as I pick off one nigga after another. So far I don’t see that nigga Python nowhere.
When Mason hits the brakes, I ease off the trigger and brace myself so that I don’t tip over and fly out the window. Once we stop, I’m out of the SUV Dukes of Hazard style and slapping in another clip. I’ve never feared getting shot or killed in these fuckin’ battles, and as a result, I’ve yet to take a hit. Not even once.
I’m not Superwoman, but I sure in the hell feel like the Terminator while I unload on these assholes.
Mason’s out of the vehicle, rock-a-byeing muthafuckas right next to me with his TEC-9. To no surprise, the battle is short, with most of these muthafuckas dropping to the ground and folding their hands behind their heads as a signal of surrender. Unfortunately for their asses, only the Vice Lords are leaving this muthafucka breathing.
“Where that muthafucka at?” Mason roars, grabbing one nigga by the back of his head and jerking it up. “Where that nigga Python?” he barks in his face.
“He’s . . . he’s not here,” the nigga croaks.
“Bullshit!” Mason plants his gun at the top of the nigga’s head and blasts his brains all over the concrete.
The nigga lying next to his murked friend starts cursing, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Mason systematically goes to the nigga and grabs him by the back of the head. “Same question, nigga. Where he at?”
“He told you the truth. Python didn’t sanction this deal. McGriff set this shit up, wanting to cut Python out.”
“Bullshit!” Mason plants his gun at the back of that nigga’s head.
“NO. I SWEAR!” the nigga screams, and then squeezes his eyes shut to prepare for his brains to be blasted, too.
Mason looks up at me. “Are you buying this shit?”
I take another look at the shaking nigga and nod my head. We all scan the ground until we see McGriff lying facedown by one of the car’s shipments. Both Mason and I stroll over to his ass. This nigga’s back is coated in blood, and he wheezes for air.
“Damn, nigga. I don’t think you’re going to make it,” I say, squatting down next to him and cocking my head. “You really look fucked up.”
McGriff raises his head. “Fuck you, bitch.”
Placing my hand over my heart, I gasp. “Such language. I’m hurt. Truly.”
He sputters out blood while his body starts to tremble violently.
I see that familiar light dimming in his eyes. “Any second now,” I tell him. “But while we’re waiting, why don’t you tell me why you’re out here, dealing behind Python’s back? Ain’t you supposed to be his right-hand man?”
Blood oozes and drips out of this fallen soldier’s mouth. “You’re a fuckin’ snake, aren’t you?” I ask, shaking my head. “You’re trying to knock your man off his throne, aren’t you?”
“Great,” Mason mumbles, rolling his eyes skyward.
“We just did that ugly muthafucka a goddamn favor, blasting these fools.”
Still shaking, McGriff gives us a bloody smile. “It’s time for new leadership. J-j-just a matter of time before he goes down for killing that cop. Johnson is not going to s-s-stop until he brings him in.”
“So you figure that you’d position yourself to be the next leader in your piece-of-shit gang,” I finish for him. “Pathetic. I had more respect for that nigga Killa Kyle while I was carving him up.”
McGriff fixes his mouth to say something else, but I’m tired of hearing his voice and simply remove my handy Browning knife and carve a permanent smile across his neck.
Mason’s face is still twisted up for our having killed the very niggas who were planning to dethrone their own leader. “Shit. We could’ve made this a movie night and let these muthafuckas do our work for us.”
“I ain’t gonna cry if there’s a few less GD bastards in the world. Believe that,” I tell him.
Bishop and his team of niggas stroll out of the warehouse building. “Yo, man. You should see this huge muthafuckin’ snake up in this bitch.”
“I ain’t interested in that nigga’s pets! I wanted that muthafucka dead—tonight!”
Bishop tosses up his hands. “I ain’t had no way of knowing his ass wasn’t going to be here.”
“You should have fuckin’ known.” Mason moves toward Bishop and chest bumps him.
Surprised, Bishop steps back. “What the fuck?”
“You get one fuckin’ job and your ass can’t do that?” He bumps Bishop again, while anger twists his face.
Hopping up, I get in between them. “Y’all squash it. This ain’t the time or the place.”
Heat radiates off Mason in waves while my brother’s confusion remains highlighted on his face.
“Let’s take care of this shit out here and then we roll over to his crib.”
“Shit,” Mason swears. “The nigga stays at different places all the time. He got so many baby mommas. Do you want to guess where he’s resting his head tonight? Hell. Tha
t’s if Bishop actually has been following him to the right addresses,” Mason growls, storming away.
“Damn.” Bishop turns to me. “What the hell is up with him?”
“Forget it. Let’s blast these fools and get out of here.”
The minute I say that shit, niggas jump up and try to make a run for it, but it’s like shooting fish in a barrel, and we mow these muthafuckas down in twenty seconds flat.
When it’s done, we all slap palms and shout, “Five for life!”
Glancing over at Mason, I see that he’s still pissed as shit. “Fuck it,” I say. “Let’s keep the Murder Train rolling. We got the crew, the firepower, and the element of surprise on our side. Let’s hit these muthafuckas at their heart.”
“Shotgun Row?” Mason says with an excited light in his eyes.
My smile stretches wider.
“My people, load up,” Mason yells. “We’re rolling this train through Shotgun Row.”
“No shit?” Bishop asks, smiling.
“No shit,” I confirm, and hop back into Mason’s bullet-riddled ride. Seconds later, we’re headed south. The moment we cross enemy lines, a silent alarm must’ve gone off because niggas come at our murder train hard.
RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!
RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!
Hoopties from four decades back jump out of nowhere while bullets hammer our vehicles. I handle my business, taking out the drivers of two cars and then watching as the runaway car carries the shooters in the passenger’s seat careening into one light pole and one parked car.
Behind us, there’s more tires screeching and cars crunching together—some of them our own crew. “Shit!”
“So much for the element of surprise,” Mason says, hanging a sharp left to take us deeper into the Gangster Disciple territory and closer to Shotgun Row.
“All is well,” I say, trying to comfort him . . . and me. But he’s right; these niggas now know we’re coming, and getting to ground zero will be like trying to bust into a military compound.
Mason hangs tough. He’s as good a driver as I am, so I have no doubts that he can get us where we need to go. If either of us is having second thoughts, now is the fucking time to voice them. However, one look at the determined set of Mason’s jaw, and I hold back my concerns and continue firing away at anything and everything that’s moving. A lot of couples brag that they would go through hell together. Mason and I are doing that shit literally.
Shotgun Row looms straight ahead, and Mason presses the accelerator all the way to the floor.
“THERE THAT MUTHAFUCKA GO!” Mason points to Python’s infamous black Monte Carlo.
Seeing this big muthafucka in his car, my heart starts hammering with excitement. We’re actually going to get this muthafucka. “Go! Go! Go!”
Python opens fire back at us, his bullets wasted on our bullet-proof windshield. Now there’s police sirens added to the mix. I know we’re going to have to wrap this shit up real quick.
“Tires,” Mason shouts. “Take out the tires.”
I’m already on that shit, but Python is ahead of the game and rocking the same honeycomb, bulletproof tires that we have on our shit. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”
“Take the nigga out, then!”
“I’m fuckin’ trying!”
Python hangs a tight left and then jets down I-240, going the wrong muthafuckin’ way.
Car horns blare while Mason stays right on his tail.
Still blasting while we bob and weave through oncoming traffic, I have serious concerns about how this shit is about to play the fuck out. As soon as I think that shit, a huge eighteen-wheeler lays on his horn. Python tries to swerve out of the way, but he gets clipped and ends up spinning off the shoulder and then flipping down into a ditch.
I don’t even get a chance to celebrate the sudden turn of events because Mason also has to swerve hard to the right, and before I know it, we’re barreling toward Python’s flipped car. I drop my weapon and try to sink back into the car, but before I’m halfway in, our SUV is airborne, too.
Next thing I know, I hit the ceiling, then the floor, and then I think the steering wheel. Then everything goes still. There’s nothing but pain, the taste of blood, and the stench of gasoline. I try to look around, but it’s almost impossible because of the way my neck is bent.
“You muthafucka,” a voice roars shortly before there’s the unmistakable crack of bone hitting bone.
I may not be able to move, but I manage to open my eyes and see around the blood streaming from my head. Python is whaling on Mason’s bloody head. “You thought you were going to take me out, muthafucka?”
Crack!
“I should’ve taken care of your ass the night I put a bullet through that pig’s head!”
Crack!
“M-Mason,” I groan, but it sounds more like a gurgle of blood.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
He’s going to kill him. “M-Mason.”
Python pulls out his gat and plants it in the center of Mason’s head.
My tears now blend with the blood flowing down my face. “N-no.” I hold my breath, waiting for the sound of Python’s gat firing, but then the nigga lowers his gun. “What the fuck is that on your neck?”
Python takes a second look. “Is that a fuckin’ birthmark?”
There’s a long pause while Python’s hardened face begins to soften. In the distance is the wail of police sirens.
“I asked you a fucking question. Is that horseshoe a fuckin’ birthmark?”
What the fuck is he talking about?
“ANSWER ME, GODDAMN IT!”
Mason spews a mouthful of blood into Python’s face. “Fuck you!”
Python wipes the shit off and keeps on interrogating him. “What’s your fuckin’ name? What’s your real fuckin’ name?!”
When Mason doesn’t answer this time, Python shakes him. “WHAT’S YOUR GODDAMN NAME?”
My heart stops at the way Mason flops around. I desperately search his bloody face, wanting to see his eyes, needing to see that light. But I can’t find it.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
The most lethal ride-or-die women in Memphis now run their gangs and the streets. But the aftermath of an all-out war means merciless new enemies, time-bomb secrets…and one chance to take it all . . .
BOSS DIVAS
Available September 2014 wherever books and ebooks are sold.
1
Ta’Shara
“STOP THE FUCKING CAR!”
Profit slams on the brakes while I bolt out of the passenger car door and race into the night toward my foster parents’ burning house.
“TRACEE! REGGIE!” They’re not in there. Please, God. Don’t let them be in there. “TRACEE! REGGIE!”
“Ta’Shara, wait up,” Profit yells. His long strides eat up the distance between us even as I shove my way through the city’s emergency responders. I’ve never seen flames stretch so high or felt such intense heat. Still, none of that shit stopped me. In my delusional mind, there is still time to get them out of there.
“Hey, lady. You can’t go in there,” someone shouts and makes a grab for me.
As I draw closer to the front porch, Profit is able to wrap one of his powerful arms around my waist and lift me off my feet. “Baby, stop. You can’t go in there.”
“Let me go!” My legs pedal in the air as I stretch uselessly for the door. “TRACEE! REGGIE!” My screams rake my throat raw.
Profit drags me away from the growing flames.
Men in uniform rush over to us. I don’t know who they are and I don’t care. I just need to know one thing. “Where are my parents? Did they make it out?”
“Ma’am, calm down. Please tell me your name.”
“WHERE ARE THEY?”
“Ma’am—”
“ANSWER ME, DAMMIT!”
“C’mon, man,” Profit says. “Give my girl something.”
The fireman draws a deep breath and then drops a bomb that changes my life forever.
“The neighbors reported the fire. Right now, I’m not aware of anyone making it out of the house. I’m sorry.”
“NOOOOOOO!” I collapse in Profit’s arm. He hauls me up against his six-three frame and I lie my head on his broad chest. Before, I found comfort in his strong embrace, but not tonight. I sob uncontrollably as pain overwhelms me, but then I make out a familiar car down the street.
“Oh. My. God.”
Profit tenses. “What?”
My eyes aren’t deceiving me. Sitting behind the wheel of her burgundy Crown Victoria, is LeShelle with a slow smile creeping across her face. She forms a gun with her hand and pretends to fire at us.
We’re next.
LeShelle tosses back her head and, despite the siren’s wail, the roaring fire, and the chaos around me, that bitch’s maniacal laugh rings in my ears.
How much more of this shit am I going to take? When will this fuckin’ bullshit end?
BOOM!
The crowd gasps while windows explode from the top floor of the house, but my gaze never waivers from LeShelle. My tears dry up as anger grips me.
She did this shit. I don’t need a jury to tell me that the bitch is guilty as hell. How long has she been threatening the Douglas’s lives? Why in the hell didn’t I believe that she would follow through?
LeShelle has proven her ruthlessness time after time. This fucking Gangster Disciples versus the Vice Lords shit ain’t a game to her. It’s a way of life. And she doesn’t give a fuck who she hurts.
My blood boils and all at once everything burst out of me. I wrench away from Profit’s protective arms and take off toward LeShelle in a rage.
“I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!”
“TA’SHARA, NO,” Profit shouts.
I ignore him as I race toward LeShelle’s car. My hot tears burn tracks down my face.
LeShelle laughs in my face and then pulls off from the curb, but not before I’m able to pound my fist against the trunk.
Profit’s arms wrap back around my waist, but I kick out and connect with LeShelle’s taillight and shatter that muthafucka. The small wave of satisfaction I get is quickly erased when her piece of shit car burps out a black cloud of exhaust in my face.
Street Divas Page 29