Not Forgiven: A Thriller and Suspense Novel: Ungoverned Series

by Shawn Raiford

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  The Big Plate Of Cookies

  "Yo, Beto," a thug said from the back of the house. "What's up? I can't see you?"

  He's unable to answer you, because he is dead.

  "Who's that?" Frogger asked.

  "That you, Frogger?"

  "Yeah man, it's me! Where the hell is Beto? Who the hell is shooting?"

  Guns out front, and ready.

  "I don't know, homie. I'm in the back of the house, Beto went through the front door!" he yelled from around the corner.

  "I don't know! What about that gringa?"

  "No, I have not seen her. Nobody has gone through the back!"

  Here I am.

  "I think she saw you guys in the street and she told me she was leaving."

  "You think she left before we came inside the house?"

  "Man, I don't know!" Frogger replied. "I need a doctor!"

  Two Hispanic men nonchalantly walked, one from the left and one from the right, into my field of vision. Each man was armed.

  The one on the right, six foot three or four and well over 300 pounds—Fatstuff!—shuffled to the table and grabbed a cookie from the big plate of cookies, but the one on the left was closer to me, heading straight to Frogger's bedroom.

  He didn't have time to react to my presence. I squeezed the trigger.

  COUGH!

  Single shot, center mass.

  The thug, doubling over, grunted, almost falling on top of me. After I punched him in the gonads, he turned his body and fell backwards. The thug faced away from me, positioned in the hallway.

  The banger brought his hands up to his chest, groaning. "She's here!" he said like as if dealing with being constipated.

  The back of his white T-shirt raised up momentarily. I noted that he wore a bulletproof vest.

  I fired a shot into the bottom of his skull, the bullet severing the spinal cord from his brain. Death was instant.

  Six dead.

  Fatstuff, still rotating his mass like a rotating planet, brought up his weapon. With a burst of noise that sounded like a jackhammer, bullets rang out in my direction.

  I got off a couple of shots in his direction before hugging the floor like a drunken sorority girl.

  Bits of sheet rock and dust fell in my hair.

  The house was quiet for several long moments. Then Frogger asked, "Who's shooting through the wall?"

  Some of the bullets went through the wall, evidently missing Frogger and his big mouth. Such a shame to waste bullets like that.

  Like the creature in the movie Alien, I uncoiled to a standing position in the hallway. Making my eyes into slits, I breathed through my mouth, tasting sheetrock dust.

  Something landed on the floor, not far from me, sounded like a gun. Sounded like a handgun.

  It was quiet again.

  Aimed my HK at Fatstuff—his handgun lay a few feet in front of him. He lay on his side, reminding me of a manatee.

  I grinned then waved at him.

  He winced, holding his belly with bloody hands. "Ah, shit!" He stared at me, not excited to see me still breathing.

  "Who's there?" Frogger asked.

  His face wrinkled in pain. "Hey, Frogger, man it's me, Bull! I've been shot!"

  Gut shot, very painful, so I've been told, even if you have a hundred pounds of insulation around your gut.

  "Where is she?" Frogger asked.

  I shook my head, aiming at his face. He stared back at me with a blank stare. No fear in his eyes.

  Over the years, I have encountered many who were sorry, wanting forgiveness. When the Reaper came calling, being sorry did not matter. There would be no forgiveness today!

  If Fatstuff survived this ordeal, it would be easy to find again. Torturing him would be making him eat kale infused tofu.

  Ten-seconds passed.

  Fifteen-seconds.

  Twenty-seconds passed.

  Then two more thugs, each with a pistol in hand, appeared on the left. Neither was aware of my presence. I dubbed them Dumb and Dumber.

  The first one asked, "Hey man, you shot?"

  Perhaps these two didn't hear Bull tell Frogger that I shot him. Oh well, they stood there, with weapons, meaning to do me harm. No mercy.

  We weren't here for coffee and cookies; we were here for bullets and blood.

  Dumb, turned, I shot him in the knee. His body rotated, covering up Dumber, blocking my shot.

  His pistol slipped from his grip, sliding away like a boogie board on water.

  Dumber got off a shot and hit his target. A direct shot to my chest, my left tit to be exact. It felt like he shot my boob clean off.

  My ability to compartmentalize, something I learned as a little girl, dealing with the monsters, was the key to dealing with pain.

  Ignoring the pain emanating from my chest, I returned fire, hitting Dumber in the chest, twice.

  Dumb grabbed his knee and screamed out from the pain. Sissy. He just became No-knee.

  Dumber stood for about two seconds, staring at me incredulously, then fell and did not move.

  I waited several seconds.

  Seven dead.

  Two injured. Nine down overall, which meant two remained.

  "What's going on out there?"

  I wanted to laugh.

  The one that lost his knee, No-knee, screamed, "OH MY GOD!"

  "Bull," someone to my right, behind the wall, mumbled.

  Bull glanced in the direction of the voice. He pointed at me with his eyes. This thug, the one Fatstuff just gave my position to, was number Ten. The eleventh might be next to him. Ten and Eleven.

  They should be the only ones left.

  Staring Fatstuff in the eye, I stood up fast and acted like I was heading towards the kitchen.

  "Yo, she's going that way!" Fatstuff told Ten and possibly Eleven. I pictured him pointing a bloody hand and finger towards the kitchen.

  Only taking two steps towards the kitchen, in the hallway, I halted, I turned around and exited the hallway into the dining room.

  I drew my other handgun.

  Fatstuff's eyes bulged.

  My weapons up and ready, my body formed a T, aiming left and right. Eyes peeled to the left, no one on the left.

  "Oh shit!" Fatstuff coughed.

  Rotating my head 180 degrees, I spotted only one thug. Ten.

  He stood with his back to me, his pistol poised to do some damage, waiting for me to emerge from the kitchen.

  Plugging him with two shots, both were to the middle of his shoulder blades, severing his spine.

  He fell forward. His handgun skidded away as if it had legs.

  I walked up to him trying to crawl away, blood spurting from his mouth. I shot him in the back of the head, and his body stopped moving.

  Eight dead.

  Two down, and Eleven still up and able.

  No-knee cried. Pussy.

  "There is one more of you, where is he?" My voice low.

  He glared at me. "Screw you, bitch!"

  I shot his hand.

  "OUCH! YOU BITCH!"

  "If you are not going to be of use to me I don't need you," I informed him.

  "I'm not telling you shit!" No-knee grunted.

  Hiked up my shoulders, I holstered the HK in my right hand, pulling out the SOG.

  Checking my left again, nobody there. Before No-knee could block my hand, I plunged the knife's blade into his neck, stopping at the hilt. I twisted the blade. His life left his body, smoke released into the air.

  Nine dead.

  One injured.

  I glanced over at Fatstuff and pointed to the back of the house. "Who's back there?"

  "I don't know; I don't remember."

  A few seconds later the faint sound of a door opening. "I think he's coming."

  Fatstuff said nothing.

  "Hey, if you play your cards right, you will survive this. I give you my word."

  His eyes narrowed, but he nodded his head a millimeter, possibly two.
<
br />   I leaned against the wall. Slivers of sharp pain reached around my torso. The pain had slipped out of the compartment I put it in moments ago. I shoved the pain inside the other compartment I just created, and was able to continue.

  My eyes were glued to Fatstuff's eyes; they would tell me when Eleven stood within striking distance.

  Both HKs hung at my sides, an idea germinating: actors made themselves cry by remembering a terrible memory.

  Truckloads of terrible memories twirled around in my head. I thought about my childhood.

  My eyes began to water.

  Then, I thought about Kenneth and Miranda. I remembered how scared I was all the time while I lived there.

  I was crying now. Bawling, in fact.

  Tears flowed.

  My left hand faintly moved behind me, between my butt and the wall. My chest heaved as snot came out of my nose.

  My vision was blurry, but I made out Fatstuff's confusion across his face. "Bull, I'm sorry. I messed up."

  Something to my right came into view, in the doorway. Blurry, yet I made it out to be a man, standing near me.

  "Drop your gun!" He stood about six feet away.

  The HK in my right hand dropped to the floor.

  My chest heaved again, I breathed in my runny nose. Turning my head, I blinked away most of the tears. The man was under thirty, close-set eyes, with slightly bigger-than-normal ears. I remembered him, the one in the car out front. The one who called Happy about me being here, number Eleven.

  Aiming a pistol at me, he seemed confused too.

  Again, I glanced over at Fatstuff. "Please tell him to shoot me. I deserve it." My shoulders slumped even further as I kept an eye on Eleven.

  "Happy wanted you ali..."

  That very moment, the gunman took his eyes off me and I thanked him mentally. I took one step towards him, my right hand reaching, grabbing the wrist of his gun hand from underneath, forcing the weapon upward. I brought my left hand around and placed the end of the suppressor under his jaw.

  As I squeezed the trigger, the dumb ass fidgeted. His brain was my target; a quick death would have been the result. His movement changed the angle of the shot and the blast blew the right side of his jaw off.

  Blood, chunks of meat, and bone landed on the wall two feet behind him.

  I backed up.

  He released the pistol dangling from his finger. I grabbed it. Didn't want him discovering any last-second strength and shooting me.

  With a closed mouth, Eleven coughed. Blood sprayed out the gaping hole on the side of his face. Teeth were missing. His tongue, now longer, dangled and waved around like a blind snake. The wound, I thought, demanded to be bloodier. The edges were crimson and glistened.

  Wobbling backward, he made a light gurgling sound, sitting down on the floor. Eleven tried to talk, releasing a guttural, "Gahg!"

  Bull grunted, "Ah shit homie, that's messed up!"

  All of a sudden, a blur hit me, knocking me over. My HK went flying into the living room, near the couch.

  Whoever hit me, hit me hard, and it hurt. I rolled over to my side. "Ouch!" I stared at Fatstuff. He had a stupid look on his face. I figured it was some kind of smile.

  Fatstuff said. "Mr. Chivo's going to kick your ass!"

  Ignoring the pain, I stood.

  So, the count was twelve, not eleven. Shit, there might be ten more outside, but I had to deal with this winner-at-life before I could figure out how many men Happy actually sent.

  Chivo? Goat. "Mr. Chivo? That's your name?" I asked, understanding his sobriquet. This guy stood a couple inches taller than me, weighed about 180, and had a goatee roughly eight inches long. The chin hair was meant to look manly or perhaps menacing, but looked stupid on his face. I really hoped that this Goat guy had not procreated yet because his offspring were doomed to failure.

  "Yeah, bitch that's me!"

  "Why is that your name? Do you have a little goat dick? Goats have little bitty dicks." I held up a closed fist, with my pinky sticking straight up. "Is it about this size?"

  He scoffed.

  This thug had a pistol; I did not need one.

  Eleven, or Missing-jaw, made more gurgling sounds.

  Goat shuffled over to him. "Damn homie."

  As he stared at Eleven, I ran the other way and tripped.

  "Hey! Where do you think you're going?"

  Tripped because my HK lay on the floor, and I fell on top of it, trying not to make my intentions obvious.

  Goat sat on top of me, pinning my arms.

  "What are you doing? I saw the gun fly from your hand!" he said, reaching for the gun. "You stupid bitch."

  Most of the men I came across while working were stronger than me. Instead of complaining about that reality, I used my brain, guns, and knives.

  Goat grabbed the gun from under me, turning me over, checking me out.

  He had my HK in his waistband.

  He smiled, licking his lips. "Damn, baby. You're a hot bitch. Should I bend you over before I give you over to Happy?"

  All these gangster thug types were so easy to predict. They thought their physical size and strength were enough to handle a woman.

  Movement out of the corner of my eye.

  Glancing at him, I realized that Fatstuff had made it to a knee, one hand on his belly. He winced and let out little yelp.

  Missing-jaw was not moving any more.

  The yellow Chiclets Goat called teeth were in desperate need of braces.

  "Go ahead little goat dick! Hit me!"

  His face scrunched up, bringing his face real close to mine. "I'll show you!"

  I got a whiff of his breath. "Whoa! Your breath stinks! What is that smell? Asshole? Oh my God, Goat! What have you been doing with assholes? Damn it!"

  Goat let go of one of my wrists and hit me. My eye rang out in pain.

  Goat still held my other wrist, but I had a free arm. Brought back my free hand to my chest. Then sent my elbow to his chin.

  His mouth, agape, mouth breather, had slammed shut with enough force to crack or even break his teeth. Goat performed a reverse dive, falling off of me.

  Starbursts flittered in front of my eyes. Quickly, I reached in my pocket and fished out brass knuckles.

  Goat stood up, wobbly, grabbing his hairy chin. I half expected him to spit teeth, but he shook his head and came at me instead.

  Now, three-spiked brass knuckles adorned my right hand like an industrial piece of jewelry.

  Goat tried to tackle me but I side stepped him and he tripped over Fatstuff, who was back down on the floor, crashing into chairs and the table.

  Fatstuff winced and moaned, "Ouch!"

  "Gut shots hurt," I said. "You really should get yourself to an emergency room."

  An eyebrow made an upside down u. "You ..." Bull did not finish his sentence because Goat stood up dramatically, throwing a chair in my direction.

  "Bitch, you're going to pay for this!" Goat threatened, wiping blood from his face. He must've cut himself on a chair of the table when he landed.

  I chuckled. "Really? I am sorry if I am whipping your ass, so easily. Let me buy you a Mocha Frappuccino. Do you know if Starbucks accepts bitcoin yet?"

  Goat's eyes searched the floor. I didn't see my HK in his waistband. Must've fallen out.

  "Why don't we stop flirting with each other, come over here, and give Mommy a kiss." I waved him over. "I'll use some tongue so you feel like a big boy."

  His top lip twitched, and then he took a few steps towards me.

  My dukes were up.

  Goat swung, lazily, missing.

  I sent one of my dukes towards his chin, and the brass knuckles connected.

  His head ratcheted to the side. "Ooff!" Goat exclaimed, taking a couple of steps back.

  I kept my dukes up.

  His eyes went wild as he launched a haymaker. I ducked, my right shoulder absorbing the blow, but it didn't have much effect.

  Goat turned and put his dukes up, pretending to know
what he was doing. He jabbed, right-left, and missed like a blindfolded kid missing a piñata. He sent out another set of jabs, and when the left one came and missed, I hit him hard in the jaw, under his ear with the spikes.

  He stumbled backwards, hands down, and I charged. I got another jab in to his face before we landed on the floor. I straddled him, unleashing my wrath onto his face. Goat tried to stop my hands, but it was useless.

  Blood started splattering, the brass knuckles opened up the left side of his face, and with each punch the wound widened.

  His hands fell to the sides, out cold.

  Not wasting any time, I glanced behind me; Fatstuff was still down on his back, watching me.

  "Were you checking out my ass?" Not waiting for him to answer, I got up and walked over to Nine's body and pulled the SOG from his neck. Went to Fatstuff, and told him, "I'll be right back, I have to murder your butt buddy."

  Killing Goat would not be murder. It was a service to Texas taxpayers.

  I straddled him, stabbing Goat's neck. Blood sprayed. He woke. I pulled the blade out, stabbing his Adam's apple again. I pulled up, and sliced open his neck, killing him instantly. I pulled the blade out and inserted it several more times. In all likelihood, this winner at life, had a mother, but the funeral would be a closed casket. Bad for her, not my problem.

  Goat's head rolled away from his shoulders.

  "Yo! What's happening out there?"

  Frogger. Again, I almost laughed.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Turned Onto The Street

  Oso turned onto the street, heading to the house where she was waiting for him.

  Turning his head to the left and then to the right, cracking his neck. He leaned forward, and felt a little tightness in his pecks, stretching his right arm backward. The tightness was from the chest workout earlier.

  Happy wanted to feel her life slip away and had to remind himself to be patient. He still could not believe a woman did this to his men. She killed the ones who did the drive-by, except Frogger.

  The other gangs would soon learn that Triple H was down several men. Enemies might make a move against them.

  He stared at his hands. Many nicks and scars covered them, which had been responsible for many deaths over the years. Tony's dried blood under his fingernails looked like dirt.