No Home Training

by Ms. Michel Moore

  Ms. Michel Moore

  Chapter One

  Say It Ain’t So . . .

  “You backstabbing conniving son of a crackhead, treating me like my feelings don’t matter bullshit is definitely over! Matter of fact, so is me and you! You and that illegitimate bastard you care so damn much about can have each other! Fuck you and my sister!”

  “Hold tight-so it’s like that?”

  “Kick rocks Storm, trust, it’s just fucking like that!”

  Storm

  Just who in the hell does Kenya think she’s talking to like that? She out of her rabbit-ass mind! After all the expensive lavish gifts he’d showered her with, the numerous times he’d forgiven her complicated lies and all the confusion she’d brought into his life. Storm couldn’t believe his ears and the slick mouthed way his fiancée had just spoken to him before hanging up in his face. That dumb bitch gonna spit all that venom on my unborn seed like that. I do what I wanna do for mines! Telling me to come get my clothes and get the hell outta my own damn crib! That Detroit mentality strong arm bullshit she be on got me all the way fucked up! Enough is enough! I swear to God when I get back home it’s on! Kenya can’t stop or slow down shit! I been making noise since the womb! She ain’t shit, but a headache waiting to happen!

  Snapped out of his thoughts by a strange car pulling up on the other side of the abandon factory warehouse, Storm focused on its every movement. Glancing at his watch he took notice it was seven o’clock on the nose. He was on time for the meeting just like he’d promised Brother Rasul he would be. Well, here the fuck we go. This is it. Rubbing his sweaty palms together, Storm waited anxiously for the driver to make the first move in contacting him. With cell phone still in hand, he didn’t blink. He didn’t move, but his eyes stayed watchful. This was a chance of a lifetime for him to really come back up in the game and get back on his feet. Reminiscing on all the bad luck he’d suffered over the past year, mostly thanks to Kenya and London, he didn’t want to mess things up by overplaying his position.

  Seconds later, the midnight black Dodge Challenger slowly approached him. As Storm’s heart raced with eager anticipation, not fear, he tossed his phone on the passenger seat. Unarmed, as he was instructed to be, instinctively growing up in the streets, Storm kept his foot on the brake, while the car was still in Drive, just in case this was some sort of set up bullshit. Dealing in the line of work he did, anything could and would happen at a drop of a dime. If it was one thing Storm knew for sure, it was hustlers definitely had no honor amongst thieves.

  Raising his left hand to shield the last bit of shine from the setting sun, Storm tightened up his right grip on the steering wheel. The vehicles, now side by side both idled their engines. When the driver of the Challenger finally lowered the tinted window, Storm was more than relieved, as well as shocked, to see a female posted up behind the wheel.

  “What up doe?” the platinum blonde tied zillion beauty grinned winking her eye. “Park your whip baby boy and come take a ride with me!”

  Hearing the chick say, ‘what up doe’, Storm immediately recognized she must’ve been from Detroit. Oh, hell naw! Not another one of these females! “Hold tight, where we going?” his first mind told him to ask before stepping out his car.

  “To the beach, out to dinner and then maybe to the show!” she teased sarcastically before cutting to the chase. “Look guy, are you riding or not? Because if you want me to go back and say you told me to get the fuck on and you wasn’t interested in getting in the car with my cute-ass, I can do that to! Shit, it ain’t a problem, I’ma get paid anyway it go! That’s on you!”

  Trusting Brother Rasul wouldn’t send him on a dummy mission, especially knowing it would hurt Kenya; Storm put his car in park, turning off the ignition. “Damn, slow ya roll, I’m coming!”

  Clicking the automatic locks, the feisty sharp tongue driver allowed Storm to get inside and shut the door. “Look man, I hope you ain’t got no guns or bullshit like that on you. Because if you do . . .”

  “Naw, my dude already told me ahead of time. I’m straight.” Storm looked in the back seat to make sure no one was hiding there on a sneak ambush attack mission, “Okay, so now what’s next?”

  “Nigga just sit back and ride! That’s what’s next!” Respecting his gangsta for checking out his surroundings, the girl laughed after blowing a nice size bubble with the gum she was chewing. Mysteriously, the female then sent a text to someone, before pulling off.

  Just then Storm realized, not only was he at a total disadvantage not having a gun to at least have a fighting chance to protect himself if any wild shit jumped off, he’d left his cell phone back in his car as well. “Hey hold up, I need my phone!” he blurted out.

  “Look guy, didn’t I say just sit back and ride?” she shook her head and smirked before turning out the deserted parking lot. “I see you one of them damn hard headed recruits!”

  Having a flashback to the Tropical Island and all the torture Javier put him through while he was being held hostage, Storm maned up rubbing his ear, which was missing the lobe, courtesy of his host. Oh well, it ain’t no retirement plan to this game. When you in, you all the way in. Then you fucking die. For now, Storm’s mindset was on staying alive and securing the new connect, not London and his son, not Marco and his murderous threats and not Kenya’s temper tantrums and pity parties she’d recently become famous for throwing. He’d deal with her and all that other chaotic madness later that is if he made it back alive in one piece.

  O.T.

  Running through red lights disobeying every law on the books in pursuit of getting to a distressed London as soon as possible, O.T. pressed the accelerator damn near to the floor of his car. Relentlessly pushing redial on his cell phone in attempts to reach London or at least Kenya, he received nothing but a busy signal. From the drastic tone in London’s voice, O.T. realized that this wasn’t a false alarm or no fucking practice run. This shit was real and it must be truly time for her to deliver his nephew.

  He didn’t know what had changed him or his selfish way of thinking over the past few months, but whatever it was he knew he had to be there for London and the baby. Driving down the final stretch of road before turning into his brothers’ semi-gated community, O.T. got a glimpse of a car that seemed to be following him. But considering what he believed was going on at the condo he could care less about the ho-ass police stopping him for violating a couple of traffic laws. As far as O.T. was concerned, they could provide him and London with a special VIP police escort to the hospital if they wanted to

  Turning onto the block, O.T. had to slow his car down to avoid colliding with the massive convoy of Mexican workers, huge trailers, lawn mowers, blowers and dumpsters that lined the road. Having no choice but to park several doors down, O.T. jumped out his ride which was packed with bags containing stuff for the baby. In good spirits, he started jogging over toward the condo.

  “Hey you coward motherfucker!” the hooded driver of the other car swerved up near the curb getting out with gun in hand.

  O.T. froze, shocked this Negro was so brazen to come where he laid his head trying to get ignorant and then be ballzy enough to point a gun at him. “Have you lost your fucking mind? I ought to . . .”

  “Ought to what? Shut the fuck up and be a man?”

  O.T. was amused. “Come the hell on, what in the fuck do you know about being a man? Matter of fact get the fuck on I got business to take care of inside and I ain’t got time for this mess!”

  “You and ya’ fake-ass brother think y’all can go around ruining people lives thinking it ain’t no consequences to that bullshit, but trust when I tell you it fucking is!”

  “Listen you twisted heart piece of shit!” O.T. boldly shouted loud enough for the Mexicans to hear. “If I’m supposed to be scared because you got a gun, then you wrong. Now if you gonna do something, then pretend you man enough to do it or beat it, you feel me! But just know I’m gonna hunt ya’ black-ass down until the day I die for coming out here
to my brothers crib!”

  “Who in the hell you think you is, Superman?”

  “Fuck you with ya’ bitch-ass! I guess you ain’t man enough, huh?” O.T. spit on the front grass turning around to head for the condo front door.

  Hearing him making threats, acting as if he was untouchable and above getting got, the trigger was pulled and the blazing sound of eight loud gunshots filled the air. Taking cover behind trucks, trees, bushes and garbage cans, bystanders witnessed O.T.’s body jerk absorbing bullet after bullet before hitting the ground. Seconds later the hooded shooter jumped back in the car and sped off.

  As the stunned innocent spectators emerged from the safety of whatever they could find to get out of harm’s way, they couldn’t believe their eyes. The driver of the first car was sprawled out in a concrete driveway with bullet holes seemingly everywhere on his body. With clots of blood trickling from the corner of his lips, some of the bolder neighbors cautiously approached him with their cordless phones in hand. Some called 911 as the elderly homeowner of the driveway, old Mrs. Farrow, went to knock on Storm and Kenya’s door. Knowing if they were home, despite the sounds of a radio playing through the door, they’d certainly heard the loud barrage of gunfire interrupting their otherwise quiet community, she opted to knock just the same.

  Recognizing O.T. as one of their frequent visitors, she felt it was the right thing to do. Getting no answer, the woman, known as the neighborhood busy body, rejoined the others trying to make the young man as comfortable as possible while they waited for the ambulance. Minutes later, help arrived. O.T., struggling to live so he could help London raise his brother’s baby, was rushed to the nearest hospital.

  “We’re losing him! We’re losing him! Damn, hurry!” the EMT panicked as the gauge on the heart monitor beeped; signaling time was crucial. “He’s about to bleed out!” Coming to the realization the multiple gunshot victim he was treating, life was rapidly fading away; he faced the cold hard facts. Limited in what procedures he could perform in transit, the man nervously checked his watch. “If we don’t get him stabilized in the next two to three minutes, this boy is as good as dead. These gaping holes need dealing with now! He’s choking on his own fluids . . . hurry!”

  “I know. He’s already lost so much blood. I radioed ahead for a team to be waiting because we need top priority.” With his partner trying everything to save the young man’s life, the ambulance driver ran through the red light with sirens blaring. Listening to the agonizing sounds of the wounded victim gagging, he pressed the gas pedal to the floor. With the hospital finally in sight, he roared into the Emergency Room Entrance.

  Surrounded by doctors as well as a police detective, the grim reality set in as O.T.’s motionless bullet riddled body was removed from the rig. Strapped to a gurney, rushed into the triage area, his bloodied clothes were cut off tossed into clear plastic bags. With the combination of several needles stuck in his skin, I.V. bags hung to the side, and an oxygen mask pressed on his face, O.T. remained unconscious.

  “Okay what do we have?” The senior trauma surgeon on staff entered the chaotic room hoping for the best, but expecting the worst. “What’s the initial damage?”

  “He has five gunshots in total. Three seem to have gone in and out through his lower extremities and don’t seem to be life threatening, although since he has yet to speak, the possibility of spinal damage is possible.” Nurse Jamison, who had seen it all throughout the years, gravely reported from her first evaluation. “However the other two bullets appear to have struck major organs, one possibly ripping right through his kidney. The first responders tell me the amount of blood on the scene, along with the massive amounts lost while he was being transported have me more than concerned.”

  Putting white rubber gloves on, Dr. Wang sternly ordered all unnecessary persons outside of the triage examination room immediately as O.T. went into violent convulsions.

  “Remember Doc, if he says anything I need to know. And any bullets you recover . . .”

  “Listen whatever your name is. I’m trying to save his life. Anything else is secondary.” Dr. Wang turned his back on the unsympathetic cop to focus on his patient, who was officially identified by the officer as twenty-three year old Othello Terrence Christian, a target of several criminal investigations over the years.

  When the double steel doors of the emergency room swung shut, the officer took out his cell phone calling his superior. “Hey Malloy. Yeah man, they have that cocky motherfucker in the back right now working on him. But from the looks of things, if that fool makes it to see the sunrise, its’ gonna be nothing short of a goddamn miracle! It looks like that dyke done sent him to meet his maker! Remind me to send flowers to that bitch’s funeral!”

  Police

  Chief Detective Malloy shut his cell sliding it back on the clip on his side. Looking at his partner, he smiled delivering the encouraging update. “Oh well, with that deranged lunatic Marco Meriwether finally in custody and one of the Christian brothers out our hair, things are looking up on closing a lot of open cases. Now if we can put Storm out of commission too, we’ll be batting a thousand.”

  “Don’t worry, he’s the next domino to fall in this game for sure. The surveillance team might have lost him for the time being, but bet five dollars to a bucket of shit, he’ll surface, especially since his brother is kicking down the devils door!”

  Having just arrived on the first, of two very much still active crime scenes, Malloy and Sergeant Kendricks got out their unmarked vehicle. Raising the yellow tape, they approached the crashed rental Tangelina Marie Gibson had taken her final breath inside of after opening fire on O.T. A beige canvas tarp covered the body of the deceased as a small crowd of bystanders gathered on the still damp street.

  “Okay officer, what exactly went down?” Malloy questioned watching the Water Department finish sealing the hole where the fire hydrant once stood before getting barreled over.

  “Well Detective, I was posted just like I was ordered to do.”

  “And?”

  “And I thought it was Marco. It looked just like him. He, I mean she, fitted the description,” the rookie undercover officer paced near Tangy’s dead body that housed a police issued slug right between the eyes. “The hood, the braids, damn, damn, damn!”

  “Listen, calm down and get back to the story.” Malloy tried to keep him focused on the details and only the details. “What went down exactly blow by blow?”

  Lighting a Marlboro cigarette to subdue his shaky nerves, he continued. “First she jumped out the car and ran up on him. They exchanged words, then she just opened fire on him, maybe seven or eight shots. I’m not sure!” His white pale hands shook while taking a couple of pulls from his cigarette. “Then right after I told you to send back up, things really went berserk. The girl jumped back in the car! She just kept coming! She wouldn’t stop!”

  The officer tossed the two-way radio on the passenger’s seat before posting up. Knocking over several garbage cans and hitting a car in an attempt to get away from the homicide that was just committed, the driver was faced with the undercover officers gun pointed directly at the windshield. “Stop or I’ll fucking shoot!”

  Not paying attention to the officers threats the car barreled through the one man barricade leaving no other recourse but more gunshots to ensue. Losing control of the automobile after being fatally struck by one of the bullets, the driver crashed into a fire hydrant and slumped over to the side of the passenger seat. As the cocky but nervous policeman approached the vehicle through the heavy water flow spewing from the hydrant with his pistol still drawn, he cautiously opened the door snatching the hood off the driver. As all the braids fell out of the hood, he got a good look at the deceased’s face . . .

  “I couldn’t believe it—a woman! I shot a goddamn woman!” He sat down as gawkers whispered taking photos and videos with their cell phones.

  “Look man, it was you or her from what you just said. It can’t be no holiday everyday in our job! D
eath comes with the territory!” Malloy placed his hand on the officer’s shoulder. “And every cop’s main objective is to go home at night to their families. You didn’t kill the carpet munching dyke,” he glanced over at the now blood stained tarp. “She had a death wish and killed her damn self!”

  After getting the full run down of the events leading up to the shooting and crash, the mood still seemed solemn. Even though Tangy thought she was every bit a man, she was still a female—a once a month bleeding, emotional unstable jealous hearted female. The fact she appeared to attempt a premeditated murder and elude arrest, offered no relief of guilt for the young Caucasian officer that was forced to take her obviously troubled life. With his hands buried in his face, Kendrick consolingly sat on the curb next to him.

  On to investigate the most important crime scene, Malloy made his way down the road. Walking toward the front yard of the condo belonging to Storm, he instantly grew angry at what he’d just heard. That crazy-ass girl robbed me of seeing the look on O.T.’s face when we arrested him and his older brother on conspiracy, racketeering, drug trafficking, and murder charges. I know I should be thanking her, but fuck, I had hours tied up in these damn cases!

  Observing his fellow officers conduct interviews with the Mexican landscaping crew that were witness to the shooting, along with a few neighbors, Malloy stood near a trail of blood droplets on the concrete. With ten to twelve small cones marking important evidence to be collected, he was careful not to contaminate the area. Peering over at Storm’s undoubtfully high priced condo, he wanted nothing more than to have his men kick the door in and search the premises for any weapons or drugs. However, for the time being, he couldn’t prove Storm aka Tony Christian had broken any laws, so the presumed empty dwelling was off limits.

  “Okay you guys. Check everything out with a fine tooth comb, then let’s all meet back at the station. It ain’t no use in watching this location anymore. We’ll pick up the tail on Storm as soon as he shows up at the hospital to see about his brother.” Making sure a thorough investigation took place before he and his officers finally packed up leaving the crime scene, Malloy took one last good look at Storm’s condo. One day I’m gonna get that warrant, he promised himself thinking he saw the closed drapes slightly move as he drove off. One damn day.