Sister's Revenge: Action Adventure Assassin Pulp Thriller Book #1 (Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Assassin)

by Lori Jean Grace

  “Yeah, you won’t get no trouble outta me, ever.”

  “Hey, numbnuts,” Michelle yelled to the guy in the passenger seat. “Get in the driver’s seat. This fool can’t drive; his eye’s all fucked up.”

  “Terrance, do what she says. I can’t see shit.”

  “Jesus … dumb and dumber,” she mumbled while the other guy scurried around to the driver’s side.

  “Okay, fool, you’re free to go.” Michelle released him and stepped back against the wall of the building behind her. Holding the Glock inside her purse, she pointed it toward the man who was now on his feet lurching to his car.

  Back inside T-Bone’s, Michelle presented the cashier with her spilled and ruined dinner.

  “What happened to your food?” the cashier asked.

  “A little man trouble. We saw things differently. He thought I was available. I convinced him I wasn’t. He decided to leave without me.”

  “Are you stuck? Do you need me to call a taxi?”

  “What?” Michelle cocked her head before she understood. “Oh, thanks, no. I’m in my own car. We didn’t come together. I never saw him before. And now, other than knowing he’s a complete asshole, I don’t know anything about him.”

  “Oh … are you all right?”

  “It’s all good. But I still need dinner.”

  Nine: It’s Just Business

  DAMN, THIS HEADACHE is killing me. Girlfriend is getting her butt kicked when I see her.

  After drinking stupidly with Deja last night, Michelle needed to do something right today, but getting her butt kicked in a particularly bad round of Hapkido by a woman half her size wasn’t it. Physical activity with no thinking, no reflexes made more sense. Hitting the free weights would be the ticket. On her way to the free weight area, she checked her phone. One text, one word: Message.

  Only two people had the code to her private chat board. One wanted her to do a job—someone had hired an assassin.

  Okay, the message came in at 8:17; thirteen minutes ago. Let’s see what they have to say.

  Michelle read: Atlanta, Wed., Olympic, 5:30 PM, Solo, 40+, Relaxed.

  The message informed her of a meeting with Mr. Jones in Atlanta tomorrow evening and gave her the option for a contract to remove a single person. Payment? Forty thousand dollars plus expenses. “Relaxed” meant no immediate deadline.

  She knew better. A truly relaxed assassination didn’t exist, and everyone who paid for one had a schedule. Sometimes, they needed her to wait until after a business deal had gone through; other times, it had to happen before the final divorce decree was signed. “Relaxed” only meant she might have time to prepare for a one hundred percent professional hit.

  Knowing she had a job gave Michelle a shot of adrenaline and boosted her mood. Lifting weights stopped being a hard job to clear her head, and sweating out last night’s excesses became the joy of being strong and in control.

  Halfway through her third and final set of curls with the heavy dumbbells, her phone rang.

  “Sup, Uncle G?” she said.

  “Remember that guy, Lewis, I told you about?” G‑Baby asked. “Said he’s a lieutenant for this part of the hood?”

  “Yeah, what about him?”

  “Well, I heard he’s been doing that job for something like three years. Right timing for him to be one of those assholes at the house when Michael and Gabe Jr. were shot. You know Baby‑Sister who works over at B’s Beauty Salon?”

  “Yeah, sure, I remember her.”

  “Back then she was hanging with Lewis, and they have a little boy named Lewis Jr. Seems like Lewis treated her real bad and she cut him loose. Now she hates his guts, talks all about his business with some of the guys who come in my shop. She says he’s no-count, good for nothing who’s never been a real dad to their little boy.”

  “Figures,” she said. “Of course he’d be that kind of asshole.”

  “I’ll bump into her all innocent-like at B’s, ask her to go get lunch or something. I’ll take her to Roscoe’s and shoot the shit about old times. She knows who he worked for and who else was in the game back then.”

  “Okay, Unc, that’ll be real good. Ask her if he was ever shot bad. Get whatever you can about that.” After a moment’s pause, she said, “Hey, Unc?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  “You got it, baby girl.”

  This day just keeps getting better and better. I’m still kicking Deja’s ass, though.

  *

  The overcast autumn sky chilled the air, but it didn’t promise rain. A large crowd of moms, kids, and oldsters were out enjoying the day at the Centennial Olympic Park in Atlanta.

  Michelle wove through the crowd to the benches close to the Fountain of Rings.

  “Hello, Ms. Angelique. Please sit down,” said the hard-eyed White man. Of average size and build, he wore clothes that blended him in, and people walked right past him.

  A man unnoticed, unless they looked into his eyes. Michelle had seen death there. It shook her the first time, but not any more. Now she matched his stare while she waited, relaxed and alert.

  Customs differed on eye contact in civilian life: in Asia, direct eye contact showed disrespect, while in the West, it showed courage, character, and reverence for the other person. In her business, a calm and steady eye contact was the first price of admission. With an opponent, the one who blinked first was usually dead. With an employer, steadfast eye contact said the job would get done.

  “This job,” he told her, “is for a politician from Europe. His country is on the brink of war, with one of their neighbors in a situation involving several countries. The reasons don’t concern us. What does concern us is the job needs to look like his European enemies did it.”

  Michelle nodded, thinking of ways to give the job the right feel. She asked a few questions for a few specifics, and when she was satisfied, she said, “Sure, I can arrange that. No problem. I’ll need some special equipment, probably Russian or German. I’ll probably want to use a French sniper rifle with NATO rounds.”

  “Do you need me to procure any of these items for you?”

  “After I learn more about the target and develop a plan, I’ll let you know.” Michelle wouldn’t ask for any of the items, though. It would cost her several thousand dollars, but she preferred to keep employers and her suppliers separate. Her philosophy? The less her employers knew about the details, the better for everyone concerned. They seemed to agree.

  “You have twenty-two days to prepare,” he said. “A four-day political meeting is scheduled in New York. Our man and his primary enemies will attend these meetings. The information on all of the key people is in this folder.” He passed her a manila envelope and, without another word or a backwards glance, walked away.

  Michelle walked two blocks to an old diner with a still-working a pay phone. Attached to the wall in the small corridor leading to the restrooms, the phone provided privacy and a landline not easily hacked or tapped. There, she called G‑Baby.

  “I’m really sorry, Uncle G. I’m calling from Atlanta. This thing just dropped in my lap.”

  “What a pain in the ass,” G‑Baby said. “I’m in no mood to wait now; we’ve been waiting three muthafuckin’ years. Why don’t you tell them ‘no,’ or just run up and cap this asshole? We can’t wait for you to go off to do some muthafucka. Shit, girl, we have business here at home.”

  “I hear you, Uncle G. I want to move as badly as you do, but I have to take care of this business. This kind of work is a hundred percent different from capping some brother in the hood; you cap a brother there, and the cops don’t give a shit. Sure, they show up, lights all flashing and carrying on, take pictures and talk to everyone, like they care. It’s all bullshit. They’re only fronting for their uptown homies. Nothing’ll be done about some guy shot in a fight or a drive-by in the hood.”

  “Lousy police don’t care about nobody in the hood, that’s for sure,” G-Baby said. “Unless some player cuts
up his woman, then everyone makes a big stink. Uptown folks get a lot more upset when a woman gets killed. Why you think that is?” Some of the heat had begun to slowly leave G‑Baby’s voice.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Just is. Look, Unc, you know we’ll get these muthafuckas. Absolute. They’re dead, they just don’t know it yet. Along the way I still have to do my job and keep everything right with my contacts.”

  “Yeah, still pisses me off to have to wait more.”

  “Did you talk to Baby‑Sister the other day?”

  “I took her to Roscoe’s and we talked. We had a good time and she opened up. Said I’m all good looking for an OG. I think she wants to get with me.”

  “Don’t even try acting surprised. You know you’re fine looking. The ladies can see you’ve got it going on where it counts. Plenty of women come in the shop with some stupid excuse to show you their stuff.”

  Michelle loved to tease G‑Baby about his ladies. After his wife, Sally, died of cancer, he never settled down with another woman, even though he was a good-looking, stable, old-school gentleman. He treated the ladies right, so one of them always stuck close, trying to show him the error of his single ways.

  “What did Baby‑Sister say?” she asked.

  “That junkie named Lil Rich was the lookout for Lewis. He works part-time doing cleanup at Brown’s shoe store. You know who Lil Rich is?”

  “Yeah, I know him. He went to school with me. A rooty-poot wannabe who was always in the mix. Basically, a shit-talking coward who got into drugs.”

  “Baby‑Sister said she remembered Lil Rich telling Lewis he wanted to get paid for doing good, said he kept Lewis outta the shit when everything came down that day. Something about him being a witness, telling the police he saw two White guys on motorcycles leave your house.”

  “That means he was part of the crew,” Michelle said. “And now he has to pay.”

  This time, Michelle’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.

  Ten: Lil Rich, Little Fish

  “HEY, LIL RICH. Thought I might bump into you here behind the shoe store.” Michelle stood a few feet away, in the back alley, dressed in worn, comfortable jeans and an old, faded black hoodie with the hood pushed back, showing her face. One hand clutched a Big Gulp drink. The other was tucked in her pocket.

  “Hey, girl,” Lil Rich said.

  Clearly, he didn’t recognize her.

  “It’s me, Michelle Angelique. We went to school together over at Carver.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Remember when me, Deja, and Nikky got you into that party where Billy Johnson got shot? He was sitting right next to you when it happened.”

  Lil Rich’s expression changed.

  “Ah, I see you remember me now. Do you also remember my brother, Michael?”

  At the mention of the name, Lil Rich’s eyes narrowed as if he was trying to figure things out, when recognition registered on his face.

  “I see you remember Michael.”

  “Yeah, sure, I remember you and Deja and Nikky from school. How you been?”

  “And my brother, Michael. You remember him, too?”

  “Sure, sure. He was older. I didn’t know him too good.”

  Michelle stepped in close. “Good. I’m glad you remember him. Do you also remember being Lewis’s snitch that day when Michael and Gabe Jr. got killed? What about watching the street from outside my house? Telling the cops a bunch of bullshit about things that didn’t happen? Do you remember helping Lewis get away with murdering my brother?”

  Lil Rich’s eyes darted past Michelle down the alley. “No, no, Michelle, it didn’t happen that way.” He stepped to the side.

  Michelle matched his move, blocking his path, and pushed him against the wall. “How about getting paid by Lewis for being a witness and saying he wasn’t there? Do you remember that, you scummy muthafucka?”

  Michelle pointed her silenced 9mm at him. Lil Rich’s eyes flew big and round. He jerked back, slamming against the wall. She pulled the trigger.

  Puhffiitt!

  “That’s for Gabe Jr.”

  Lil Rich stumbled forward, hunched over, and groaned, looking down at his stomach, then up at Michelle like he couldn’t believe she’d shot him.

  “Please,” he said. “I didn’t do nothing.”

  Puhffiitt!

  “That’s for Michael.”

  Lil Rich stumbled backwards from the neck shot, a stupid look of surprise plastered on his face. He collapsed to the ground and leaned against the trash cans, blood running down and mixing with the mud. He’d bleed out in less than a minute.

  Squatting down, Michelle got into his face. “You’re dead for what you did. I want you to know who killed you, you piece of shit.” Then she picked up the two bullet casings, pulled off the surgical glove from her shooting hand, and dropped the glove and the casings into her Big Gulp. With the straw, she pushed everything under the ice and put the lid back on.

  She took off the black hoodie, leaving her in a loose-fitting, denim work shirt. A black, canvas computer bag she used as a purse hung on her shoulder. As she walked toward the end of the alley, she dropped the hoodie in a puddle, then swished it around in the muddy water, making sure the gunk covered it. Later, every cop car, ambulance, and any other vehicle coming through would run over it. Then she strolled out of the alley, looking like anybody coming from the 7-Eleven with a Big Gulp.

  “Well, bless my soul, is that you, Michelle?”

  A middle-aged women had approached from the sidewalk as Michelle came to the end of the alley. Michelle recognized her. Betty Greer had been a family friend for as long as Michelle could remember. She was a church-going woman, and before the car accident that took Michelle’s parents’ lives, Mrs. Greer had spent a lot of time with Michelle’s mom at their church.

  “Hi, Miss Betty. What a pleasant surprise to see you out here today.”

  “Where else would I be? You must remember I always go to 7-Eleven for my cigarettes and a little fresh air.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

  “Well, girl, are you going to tell me where you’ve been? Nobody’s seen you for, what, three years?”

  Michelle was happy to see Miss Betty, but with a dead body in the alley and the murder weapon in her bag, the timing couldn’t be much worse. Miss Betty loved to gossip. She talked a lot. Much sharper than most people gave her credit for. Miss Betty also asked questions and truly paid attention to the answers. Michelle knew she would not be free anytime soon. She thought about a dozen ways to get out of staying and none of them were any good.

  “Are you going to tell me or make me stand here, guessing?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Miss Betty. I don’t really know where to begin.” Michelle told her a watered-down version of the truth, a story of living abroad and about her job with the movies, chatting and keeping the conversation natural. She needed to act normal, or Miss Betty might tell the cops how Michelle had acted jumpy, which would make them suspicious of her.

  While she talked, Michelle tried to casually ease toward her parked car.

  “Where are you headed, child?” Miss Betty asked. “I still have to get my cigarettes. Here, walk with me to the 7-Eleven and I’ll walk back with you.”

  “Sure thing. I’ve already been”—she raised her Big Gulp cup—“but I’d be happy to walk with you and hear about what’s happened while I’ve been gone.”

  As the two women walked, Miss Betty gossiped about various people and events in the hood, and after they left the 7-Eleven, while they were walking across the parking lot, a police car passed by. Half way up the block, its light bar came to life with red and blue flashing lights as the cruiser did a tire-squealing U-turn and sped back past them. It hung a fast right at the corner they were headed toward.

  Damn. That didn’t take long. Somebody must have come out the back of Brown’s and seen him lying there.

  “That po-lease seems to be in a big hurry,” Miss Betty said, and then she chuckled. “Must’ve
got a call from his girlfriend. Best not let his wife learn about that.”

  Michelle and Miss Betty approached the corner, and another police car sped up the street, lights flashing, going in the same direction as the first.

  “Something’s up,” Michelle said.

  “Sure is. I wonder what. Don’t need no trouble, that’s for certain. I hope it isn’t someone been hurt over at the park. Those gangsta-looking types were hanging out by the courts when I came by.”

  Not too far away, came the wail of a siren and then it cut off. A moment later, an ambulance drove up the street, lights flashing. The lights cut and it slowed down, following the two police cars.

  Michelle and Miss Betty had turned the corner and stood at the mouth of the alley where the two police cars were parked, lights flashing. The ambulance sat behind them, back doors open. EMTs were casually pulling a stretcher out.

  Michelle saw the black hoodie she’d dropped in the mud puddle; it’d been run over several times, and now looked like an old rag that had been lying on the ground for a week.

  Amazing what a couple cop cars will do, running over their own evidence.

  While Michelle and Miss Betty stood watching the scene, an unmarked police car came up behind them and bumped the siren. They moved out of the way, and the car passed into the alley. The detectives had arrived.

  “All of those police mean something big happened,” Miss Betty said. “Maybe someone got killed.”

  “You think so? I hope not,” Michelle said.

  “Sure. They don’t bring an ambulance in all quiet-like and all them po-lease for no small thing. I’ve been around long enough to know how they operate. I’ll bet someone got hisself shot and killed. Want to walk down with me to see who it is?”

  “No, I don’t like to see dead people. It always gives me the creeps, even at funerals. I’m sure the police will come up to talk to us, anyway.” No sooner had Michelle spoken, when a young cop strode up the alley. “See? Here he comes.” Slow, deep breaths; slow your heart down, keep calm.