The Banks Sisters

by Nikki Turner

  Simone thought as the last one was of the deadly crew had one foot out of the door and one foot still inside. As she was about to exhale—grateful that she hadn’t been too physically hurt but saddened for those who had, the unthinkable happened.

  The dude wearing the Jason mask, stopped at the door and turned around. Then he randomly pointed the AR-15 into the bank, for no apparent reason.

  Simone’s breath froze into a block of ice, trapped in her lungs. She found herself staring down the muzzle of the assault rifle like a deer paralyzed by the headlight of an oncoming speeding truck before the fatal collision. There was no time to duck or move out of the way and even if there had been a beat or two to get out of the line of fire, the suddenness of the act combined with her reincarnated fear of dying, held her in place like a straightjacket.

  God help me! she prayed!

  But it was too late . . . With a diabolical look, Jason pulled the trigger.

  Boom!

  -2-

  Bush shoved the bank’s door open, leading the bloodthirsty crew across the street through the moving traffic to the waiting van. Once inside, the crew felt they were home free.

  “We did that shit, man! We fucking did that shit,” Ski-Mask said with a big smile on his face as he pulled his mask off. “Told you motherfuckers, we were going to make this shit do what it do.”

  “Go! Go! Go” Bush slapped the back of the head of the driver, putting pressure on him, “Get us the fuck from round here.”

  The driver in return, put the van in gear and pressed on the accelerator. He moved into traffic. They’d done it. They’d robbed the fucking bank and was going to be a’ight . . .

  “We up now!” Ski-Mask said.

  But before the celebration could get in full bloom, Bush noticed the two police cars.

  “Shit!” He looked again, “Fuck!”

  At the same time, to intensify things more, Jason opened the bag and dug his hand inside, a dye pack exploded. He quickly removed his hand and shouted, “Fuckin’ bitch! No! No! No! No! No! Not, a fuckin’ dye pack!” Jason looked hurt as if someone had just taken his manhood.

  “This shot was all for nothin’ man?” Freddie shouted out of frustration.

  The others looked down at the bag, just as two police cruisers turned the corner and blocked off the street. They exited their vehicles and leaned over their hoods with their weapons aimed at the van.

  “Fuck, man, what the fuck we gone do?” Freddie got a bit antsy when he noticed the cop cars were blocking the one-way street. Two more black- and whites bent the corner behind the van, hemming them in.

  The vibe inside of the van flipped from jubilant to morose in the blink of an eye. Two black and whites parked nose to nose in the middle of the street blocking their van from continuing forward.

  The driver tried to quickly diagnosis the situation to figure out the best way out.

  Jakes crouched behind the makeshift barrier, guns in hand and ready to earn their pay. The two cop cars behind them had now turned into six, and eliminated the option of backing up.

  “It’s work shawty! My turn now to put in mine! Buckle up my niggas!” the driver shouted out. He seemed to be getting an adrenaline rush off it as he put the pedal to the medal.

  Underneath the George Bush mask Dougie freaked, “What the fuck we gon’ do now?” he said with a shaky tone. The youngest of the four, Dougie was eighteen.

  Ski-Mask—a.k.a. Mike—looked his cousin Dougie in the eyes, “We gon’ get it on ’em,” meaning go to war, “or die trying,” Mike declared.

  Mike was nobody’s fool, he knew the odds of them winning a shoot out with the RPD were against them. But growing up black and broke, being the underdog was nothing new, it was their daily day-to-day norm.

  Freddy Krueger a.k.a. Bennie was twenty-two years old and had already spent two stints up state, going back this time was no option. He knew if he was even caught with a piece of stolen bubble gum, this time, they’d fry his ass for sure. “Court is in session,” he said, “and it’s being held in the street.”

  “Then let’s get it poppin’,” said Jason whose real name was Jason Kill. Jason slammed a fresh clip into the assault rifle. His boys did the same. Then Jason swung the door open. Doug, Bennie, and Jason hopped out the van.

  Gun blazing.

  Jason put a new clip in the gun and slid the back side door open. He let loose firing on anything in sight. The shots rang out loudly sounding like a warm night in Iraq.

  The slugs from the AR’s blew huge holes through the police vehicles shattering windows, knocking the sirens off the roof. It was a shame he hadn’t joined to the army because he had a great aim and plenty of heart.

  The police returned fire. Both sides put it down hard.

  A police officer stood up and caught three slugs to the face. His partner fired back multiple times at the man who’d shot his friend and coworker.

  Meanwhile other shots were aimed for the driver. The front windshield of the van shattered, slumping the driver over dead. His head fell on the horn causing it to continuously. The men knew it was do or die and didn’t have any time to waste. The team witnessed their homeboy, Mike go down but there was no time to mourn. They would have to pay their respects to him with their war game.

  The three-masked men jumped out the vehicle and rolled into the street and was gunning like skilled soldiers, at war with the boys in blue. They were fueled as they opened fire on the police officers non-stop. The volley intensified. Both sides had lost a man and neither wanted to drop another, but knew there was no surrender or retreat. In no time, mixed with the sounds of guns going off, the air was filled with approaching sirens and first response vehicles.

  The fellas bullets tore the cruisers apart. Huge holes popped up over the vehicle, sending two of the cars into flames. That gave the robbers that extra push they needed as they reloaded and continued gunning.

  The gun exchange went on for a few minutes.

  Being out numbered and out gunned neither intimidated nor deterred the crew from firing their weapons. Two more boys in blue kissed the asphalt as blood leaked from their bodies. The AR-15’s bites were as vicious as its bark.

  Bennie tried to take cover behind a parked BMW and got chopped down like an Oak tree. His body hit the pavement like a drunken Monk. Pain soared through his body as if he’d been struck by lightening.

  Blood poured from his mouth as he choked trying his damndest to hold on as life slipped away from him. He died staring at the Bush mask by his side, but not before letting off a reign of gunshots, going out in a blaze of glory.

  Dougie snapped. He’d watched his cousin and best friend die. Even a high school drop-out, such as himself could predict the outcome for him and Jason. But he swore on everything he loved that he would drop a few more pigs before he died. And he meant it with a passion. He raised up and let bullets fly like birds flying south. The volley temporarily pushed the police down for better cover. Though the police had been trained to deal with these kinds of situations, but they also cared if they lived to see tomorrow. Dougie knew that this was his last day and acted as such as he let loose round after round.

  But Dougie’s camaraderie was his weakness, his emotions overrode his intellect and made the mistake of checking on Bennie. Maybe he was still alive. He blasted his way to where Bennie lay. Gunned with one hand while checking Bennie’s pulse with the other. “What the fuck you doing, Dougie?” Jason screamed knowing that it was a dumb move and could be detrimental to them. “He’s dead.”

  The reality of his man, cousin and best friend lying dead in front of him, literally fucked him up. His bold plan of attack, was no longer strategic, it had suddenly become emotional. Doug was pissed the fuck off. He rose up opened fire on everything in his line of fire. The different caliber of weapons sounded like a gun range with everyone firing simultaneously. The sound of bullets hitting metal, glass shattering, screeching tires, and police sirens flooded the air waves.

  As Dougie looked up
to hear what Jason was saying a chunk of his scalp got peeled back. The AR-15 fell from his hands a he flew backward, then a slug ripped through his head knocking a huge chunk out then another one and another. He hit the ground, sprawled out like a dead bird.

  Jason ran to the van, by luck or the Grace of God, he managed to make it there. He tossed the deceased driver to the ground, climbed inside put the vehicle in drive. He mashed the petal all the way down to the floor. The van accelerated and sped toward the police vehicles. He rammed into them as they opened fired on the van. He ducked down and floored the gas petal. He turned the corner and the engine died. He sniffed some coke, opened the door and hopped out, with his weapon in hand. Four bullets riddled his back, but they didn’t stop him. He felt invincible like Scarface. He continued on, as two more slugs ripped through the back of his legs. He fell and quickly flipped onto his back, placed the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. His brains flew through the top of his head. His arms and weapons dropped at his side as he released his bowels and any life left in him. The police officers squatted down behind the parked vehicles as they slowly advanced toward the corpse. Once they seen that he was deceased they lowered their weapons.

  What the fuck had just happened? Was the question everybody had on their minds.

  -3-

  “Doing it now, my nig. We ain’t do too bad, either.” Spoe said, with no emotion, into his phone of what seemed like a quick, one-way conversation. “Yo, I’m going to finish this shit up, take a shower. By the time you do what you need to do, come through and pick up your bread,” he said and disconnected the phone and threw it in the mix of all the paper he was trying to sort out.

  The goose down, crisp white comforter on the king size bed had quickly turned money green due to the bills of dead American Presidents that covered the beautiful bed. While kneeling his sexy, muscular body down, on the side of the mattress, Spoe seemed to be quite exhausted as he sorted and stacked the Benjamins, Grants, Jacksons, Hamiliton, Lincolns, and Jeffersons into one thousand dollar piles. He had been counting and stacking the bread for more than an hour. The funny thing was that taking it had been an easier job than counting it. So far the count was better than half a million.

  “The fruit from a long day of labor, baby?” Spoe’s girlfriend, Bunny, came into the room and walked behind him. She kissed his neck and massaged his tensed shoulders. “That’s a lot of money, daddy.”

  Any presence of her lit up the room and his face, “You know it.” He spun around and gave her a long, wet tongue kiss. “All for us baby.” And he meant every dimension of those words.

  Spoe was old school in so many ways, especially when it came to his woman. As the man of the house, he felt it was his responsibility to be the sole provider. All Bunny needed to do was to look amazing, take care of his needs and make his house as comfortable for him as absolutely possible. She was great at both and that was something that Spoe never took for granted.

  That’s the reason why he spoiled her the way he did providing nothing but the best for them. Matching his and hers Porsche Panerama topped with the Cayenne for him and the 911 convertible for her. The cars were parked in a garage of an expensive condo that overlooked the James River; three huge bedrooms with high-end furniture and huge walk-in closets filled with the hottest trendy clothes and accessories. Spoe’s and Bunny’s elaborate lifestyle was made entirely possible by Spoe’s shill thrill of relieving drug dealers of their proceeds—by any means necessary.

  When it came to taking money, there was no denying Spoe was at the apex of his game. His peers either respected him, feared him or both. But the one thing that was a known fact about Spoe, was that nothing stood between him and his dead presidents, which was another thing he never took for granted. He knew, if he wasn’t careful, he could get caught out just like that next man.

  “How does that feel?” Bunny asked, continuing to massage his neck using her knuckles.

  The only thing that he might’ve cared about more than his money, was the love of his life, Bunny. They had officially been together for five years not counting the two years that he chased her. Though he had more of his fair share of women running behind him, the only one he sprinted after was her. And once he got her, he vowed to never let her go. She was his queen, his prize, his trophy, his everything, and a blessing that he thanked God for every day. No woman had ever captivated him like she did, and he cherished her. He loved her more than he loved his own life. She was his fantasy. In an extremely lovingly borderline, smothering kind of way. There was no denying that Spoe was obsessed with Bunny and Bunny secretly liked it that way.

  Though as handsome, charismatic and not to mention rich as he was, he could have anybody he wanted. There wasn’t a day that hadn’t gone by he didn’t turn down women who threw themselves at him. He couldn’t seem to see pass Bunny. Rumor had it that Bunny, had put something in his food, or worked some kind of Haitian voodo to have him infatuated with her, but that was far from the truth.

  The two had an agreement that they took seriously. It was simple: she had him and he had her. So she spent the majority of her time focusing on him and making him happy. In return, he gave his all to making her happy which as the man of the house, he went and got that bread and brought it back home.

  The two were inseparable, spending damn near every waking moment together. Their chemistry, not to mention the sex, went together like music. Every move they made incorporated the other. Even when he went out on “jobs”, she was always on call. Just in case something went wrong, she’d be the first one to know.

  Bunny massaged his neck then leaned in and started blowing in his ears.

  “Baby that feels good,” she kept going until he said, “I could use your help to count this babe?”

  “No problem baby.” She kissed his neck leaned in beside him and assisted him in the count process.

  “How did it go?” she asked.

  “It was like taking steak from a vegan. Easy. Shit went smooth,” he paused for a minute, with a smile. “Too smooth. Shit was probably one of the easiest heists we ever did.”

  “That’s ’cause you the best at doing what you do,” she said looking into his eyes then blessing him with a long intense Gone With the Wind kiss.

  “With a cheerleader like you, I can’t help but to win.”

  Making her heart smile, “You got that right.” She looked up at him as her hands moved back in front letting the money shuffle from one hand to another. His bulging muscles and it was something about that black wife beater that did something to her.

  “Your hands feel wonderful,” Spoe said. “But I need them fondling something else right now.”

  “Oh, really,” said Bunny, eager to oblige.

  “I need your help counting the money.”

  She cupped his balls. “Is counting money the only thing I can help with.”

  If anyone could take his mind off of business, it was Bunny. She was Beyoncé-fine, except cuter, if that was possible. Instantly, Spoe’s dick grew two inches in the palm of her warm hand. He started to move the already counted money off the bed, leaving the rest where it was.

  Bunny smiled knowing what was coming next, Spoe picked her up with ease, his muscles barely flexing with her weight.

  Her legs wrapped around his waist. They kissed. It went on for a while. His cotton-soft, dark chocolate skin pressed against hers—the color of caramel—meshed like the perfect piece of candy. Spoe laid on her on the huge King bed then peeled off his wife beater. Bunny caressed his bulging dick, through his shorts with the toes of her foot.

  For her, Spoe was definitely something to write home about. He was six foot two-inches of pure masculine perfection. Perfect skin. Perfect lips. Perfect body. And yes . . . perfect penis. Even his coal-black-wavy ponytail, which hung pass his shoulder, was perfect. Bunny couldn’t decide which was sexier; her man or the fact that she was about to be made love to on a bed covered in money.

  Letting no time pass, Spoe pulled her panties off,
filled his hands with her forty-two-inch hips, and put his bust face forward.

  Bunny’s legs were spread apart like a wishbone, above her head. “Oh my God! Damn! Don’t stop!” She cried and begged like a baby for more milk. And Spoe didn’t disappoint, when the pleasure got to be too much, she tried to squirm away. Only to be pulled back in place by Spoe’s strong hands.

  He continued to go to work on her hot spot. When she was about to cum, and with those big doe gray eyes, looking up at her he asked if she liked it, as if he couldn’t tell by the way, her ass had been bucking off the bed.

  Every nerve in her body was more hyper-sensitive to his touch even the tones of his voice, deep and sexy gave her goose bumps. “If you don’t know,” she chimed, “maybe you need to keep trying.”

  “Be careful what you ask for,” Spoe said with a mischievous grin. And the party was back on.

  In the midst of writhing in ecstasy, she managed to get the begging words out, “Please don’t stop.” She was at that cross road of lovemaking when she couldn’t take any more, but yet didn’t want it to end.

  Bunny just couldn’t help herself. When it came to their sexcapades, he always managed to take her to new places in the bedroom. He handled her sexually in the bedroom unlike any other, leaving her no choice, other than to concede to his every wish.

  An hour later, high pitch of squeals of distress emerged from the box spring and mattress, and the faux marble headboard rhythmically drummed against their canary yellow accent wall. A half empty box of Magnum condoms lay on a night table next to the bed.

  Bunny and Spoe were still on top of the king-sized bed engaged in fervent sex, lovemaking would come later. On her knees, hair do—soaking wet—tapping morse code against the faux marble headboard, Bunny felt as if she was going to explode. Spoe kneeling behind her generous cabooz, he was hard at work from a southern vantage point, submerged balls deep into her plump apple-shaped ass with every forward stroke of his thick manhood. His fingertips sank into her pillow soft caramel flesh, as he held on to her hips, trying to control the pace.