Several bouncers immediately hurried to the stage. Before Avery could assault her or touch her inappropriately, they grabbed his collar and more of him, and tried to remove him from the stage.
Avery wasn’t having it. He jerked free from their grasp, spinning around and shouting, “Get da fuck off me!”
“You need to leave!” one of the bouncers told him.
“Fuck you!” Avery cursed. But it was definitely the alcohol talking.
They rushed at him, and he swung wildly at them, and a fight ensued on the stage. There was a heated tussle between Avery and three bouncers. He wasn’t going down or leaving without a fight.
Dalou quickly hurried to help his friend. He leaped onto the stage like he was a superhero and went charging for the nearest bouncer, punching one in the back of his head, and shouting, “Get off my nigga!”
The girls ran for cover, and the patrons were moving in a different direction.
All of a sudden, bottles and glasses were being broken. A chair was thrown, and more people got into the intense brawl, Avery and Dalou right in the middle of the chaos.
Heads started to bang, blood spewed from mouths, and fists went colliding with faces and body parts. Avery was strong and vicious. Though he was outnumbered, he was fierce with his hands. The tequila made him feel invincible. Dalou was ready to shoot someone, but no guns were allowed inside the club.
Soon, both men were on the floor and being beaten viciously, boots and fists went crashing into their bodies. Dalou had to place himself into the fetal position to protect his vitals. And Avery had blood oozing from his mouth, his knuckles bruised from punching muthafuckas left and right.
The bouncers carried them out like trash, after picking them up from the floor like rag dolls.
Avery screamed madly “Yo, get the fuck off me! Get the fuck off me!” He squirmed and fought back relentlessly, trying to free himself from their grasps. But to no avail.
Dalou was the easier of the two to throw out of the club, since he was shorter and skinnier than his friend.
They both were fighting a losing battle. Avery and Dalou were violently ejected from Club Onyx and found themselves in the hands of Atlanta PD. They were immediately arrested and taken into custody. It looked like their trip to New York was about to be put on hold.
Eleven
Kwan loaded a full clip into the Desert Eagle .50-cal., a sleek, powerful semi-automatic handgun. The weapon had become an icon everywhere in the world with its triangular barrel and gaping muzzle. In the wrong hands, it became a murderous weapon, able to kill a man easily. He cocked it back. He held the weapon in his hand like it was his own son, the way he admired it. Tonight he was ready to put it to good use.
He rode shotgun in the moving Tahoe truck. He was among other killers: T-Mack, Holland, and Ricky, who were all armed, dangerous, and ready to execute some payback. Brooklyn, especially Brownsville, was their territory. They were still at war with Hassan and his organization. Though the man was locked up, he was still a dominant force in the borough, among other areas. Bimmy was a threat to them. He was just as deadly, maybe even deadlier. There was a major contract out for Kwan and Cash. Both sides were gunning for each other, desperate to spill blood like they were gladiators in a Roman arena.
Kwan took a pull from the blunt in his hand and inhaled the lovely Kush. The high was motivating. He had the urge for chaos. He had a yearning to wear the crown. He had established himself with a new drug connect, some Colombians from Washington Heights, and he was about to make the city his playground. He felt untouchable like a demon—a hell spawn ready to spit fire and burn down his enemies.
He took one more pull from the blunt and handed it off to the driver, T-Mack. The weed smoke lingered inside of the car. Kwan peered out of the window, focused on the people and the streets. His streets. He had twenty kilos of potent heroin (black gold) ready to move into the area, but some of it was Hassan’s turf. The beef between the crews wasn’t just personal, it was business too.
Kwan said to his crew, “Look, we don’t hesitate. We go in here, kill these niggas—especially Bimmy—make a statement, and we out.”
Each man nodded as T-Mack neared the Tahoe to their destination, the Brownsville Projects on Livonia Avenue. Everyone had killed before. It wasn’t brand-new to them. So Kwan felt comfortable with his men.
Some of Bimmy’s men had set up shop in an apartment building and made it their business to distribute heroin into the community. They were making their presence known in a big way. When a few residents warned them about Kwan, they insulted his name and wrote off the warning as an empty threat. They were connected to Hassan, and they took orders from Bimmy, no one else. In their eyes, Kwan was nobody, a fledgling hustler. But Kwan was ready to prove them wrong.
It was late in the evening on a cool, sunny day. Lots of folks were coming home from work, and kids from school. The corner of Rockaway and Livonia was bustling with pedestrians, residents coming and going, and vehicular traffic. Numerous shops lined the avenue, the tiny strip mall nestled inside.
“Yo, slow down, nigga!” Kwan instructed.
The Tahoe slowed down at the corner and made a left.
Kwan was keeping a keen eye out for any nigga that wasn’t part of his crew. He had eyes and ears everywhere on the streets. He already knew the building and the apartment number his enemies were occupying.
“Where they at?” Holland asked.
Kwan nodded to the third building on the avenue. “They up in there—Apartment 10F.”
“Let’s do this then, nigga,” Holland said, itching to shoot his gun.
“You think they ain’t got guns and soldiers too? We think rational on these muthafuckas—do it right. I don’t want any mistakes,” Kwan said.
“How you wanna do it then?”
Kwan went into thinking mode. He sat quietly in the front seat, trying to find a way to smoke these niggas out.
Kwan’s intuition was screaming at him. Something didn’t feel right. The information he received, could it be that easy, so simple? Before, Bimmy’s crew had never made it so easy for them. All of their safe houses and trap houses had been fortified with lookouts everywhere. And Bimmy hardly made himself so vulnerable in Brooklyn, or anywhere else. Why now? Why was he in the housing project on this particular day?
Kwan though maybe his mole Tony had given him bad information, playing both sides of the fence. As far as he knew, it could be a setup.
The men inside apartment 10F weren’t some random street thugs encroaching on a street corner selling ten-dollar crack vials and packing one or two pistols. Nah, they were organized and well-armed. They were part of a well-oiled machine. They might have eyes on the rooftop looking out for law enforcement and rival crews looking to invade suddenly.
“Yo, Kwan, how you wanna do this?” Holland asked again.
“I’m thinkin’, nigga!”
“Nigga, what the fuck is the problem kickin’ in the fuckin’ door and just sprayin’ the whole fuckin’ apartment?” Ricky said. “I’m ready to take these niggas out and eat!”
“Because, nigga, we don’t know what kind of guns they got up in that bitch. You think they gonna have more than ten ki’s inside and simply carry pistols and revolvers? And what if Bimmy’s inside too? Think, nigga!”
“So we just gonna sit here lookin’ stupid, like some scared bitches?” T-Mack said.
“Nigga, what’s up?” Holland asked, becoming impatient.
“Something ain’t right,” Kwan let them know.
“What the fuck you talkin’ ’bout? You got the info, nigga, and you ain’t gonna use it?”
“I’m talkin’ about over a month of tryin’ to find this nigga, and it’s gonna be this easy? This nigga Bimmy ain’t stupid.”
“Yo, we can wait for him to leave and then push that nigga’s wig back, blow his fuckin’ brains out for
everybody to see,” Ricky said. “I don’t give a fuck.”
They could. But who was watching them? Who was waiting for them to strike and fuck up? Was Bimmy even in the building? Was apartment 10F reliable information? Kwan was hunting for him and vice versa—Bimmy was hunting for him.
Kwan said, “Y’all niggas chill for a minute; let me see what’s up.” He concealed the .50-cal. on his person, pulled up his hoodie, and got out of the Tahoe. He tried to look as inconspicuous as possible, pulling his ball cap low over his eyes.
He walked toward the building, leaving his team of killers seated inside the truck. Every step Kwan took was calculated. His eyes darted everywhere, and he read everybody in passing, wondering if they were friend or foe. He kept his reach near his concealed .50 cal. Kwan tried to stay calm as possible, though he was on high alert. He wasn’t dealing with an amateur.
“Yo, shorty, c’mere,” he called over a young kid who looked to be in his early teens.
The kid hurried toward Kwan. “What’s up?”
“What’s ya name, little nigga?” Kwan asked.
“Michael.”
“How old are you, little nigga?”
“Twelve.”
“I need you to do me a favor, Michael.” Kwan reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of hundred-dollar bills.
Michael’s eyes lit up brightly.
He peeled off a C-note and put it in the kid’s hand. “This ya building?”
Michael nodded.
“What floor you live on?”
“Eight.”
“Okay, I need for you to knock on 10F for me. Pretend you lookin’ for your moms or something, and then come back down and tell me who comes to the door and what you see.”
It was a simple task in the kid’s eyes. For a hundred dollars he was willing to do whatever he was told.
Michael went running into the building, while Kwan stayed behind in the lobby, simultaneously watching the door, the elevators, and the stairway, his gun close and cocked back.
Several minutes passed and still, no Michael. Kwan was becoming impatient. Was it a mistake to pay the little nigga before he completed his mission? Or did he put the little nigga into a situation where he bit off more than he could chew? Either way, it wasn’t looking good.
Then out of the blue, the elevator chimed, the doors opened, and out came Michael.
Kwan glared at the kid and immediately asked, “What happened?”
Michael looked shaky and scared about something. He stared at Kwan with trepidation.
“What the fuck happen, nigga?”
Michael simply handed him a note.
Kwan snatched it from the kid’s hand, and Michael took off running toward the door. Something had happened. Something spooked him. Kwan immediately unfolded the note and read: Bang! Bang! Nigga!
Kwan’s eyes opened widely. Just like he’d thought, it was a setup. But how did they know he would send the kid? More important, how did they know he was coming?
***
T-Mack, Ricky, and Holland sat there on Livonia Avenue impatiently waiting for Kwan to return. While doing so, they lit up another blunt.
Unbeknownst to them, a dangerous threat was looming their way. A dark Escalade crept in their direction with the windows down, and another threat came on foot.
Before they knew it, two black Uzis extended from the Escalade’s window, and the man on foot produced a .9mm and quickly opened fire on the Tahoe, quickly overcoming T-Mack and the others with gunfire, multiple bullets tearing into their truck from both directions. There was no escape. Gunshots came from the street and the sidewalk and riddled the three men inside, jerking them violently, leaving their blood and flesh splattered onto the windows, interior, and windshield.
Quickly, the shooter on foot leaped into the Escalade, which sped off in the opposite direction.
The brutal execution in broad daylight sent people and local residents screaming and running for safety. When the smoke cleared, the Tahoe was riddled with bullets and the horror and reality of the streets was right there for everyone to see.
Kwan heard the gunfire and he quickly sped in the direction, only to see three of his men dead. He was too late. There was nothing he could do. T-Mack, Holland, and Ricky were gone. He gripped the Desert Eagle in his hand.
He looked around, thinking it wasn’t over. They had to be coming for him too. But there was nothing. It was chaotic on the streets. Kwan could hear the police sirens blaring in the distance. He tucked his gun and rushed away from the crime scene. There was no telling what was coming next.
As he was fleeing the scene, he glanced to his right and noticed Cash driving a Lexus. Was it him? Did he have something to do with the shooting?
The sight of Cash in Brownsville looking like he was home and chilling put more of a strain on Kwan. To say that he was pissed off was an understatement. He hadn’t forgotten about that nigga. It was time to put Cash back on his most-wanted list, along with Bimmy and Hassan.
Twelve
Kwan stormed into the New Jersey apartment fuming. It was a long, agonizing trip from Brooklyn to Elizabeth. It had all gone terribly wrong. Kwan couldn’t stop thinking about the slaughter that happened a few hours earlier. He’d made it back to New Jersey by the skin of his teeth. He was sweating, paranoid, and tired. The apartment seemed empty, but hearing the shower running in the bathroom was an indication that Sophie was home.
He marched toward the bathroom, pushed open the door, and roughly pulled back the shower curtains, startling his sister. “Hurry up and get the fuck out! We need to talk!”
Sophie shouted, “Kwan, are you fuckin’ crazy? I’m naked in here!”
“Just get the fuck out the shower!” he yelled before marching out of the bathroom.
Sophie knew something was wrong. The look on her brother’s face was scary. She hastened her time in the shower, toweled off, made herself decent, and went into the living room to talk to him. She saw the .50-cal. on the coffee table.
Kwan was standing near the window, talking on his cell phone. “Niggas is dead!”
Who’s dead? What happened?
“Nah, it was a setup, nigga,” Kwan said.
Sophie was staying in Elizabeth, New Jersey because of the war in the boroughs. No one was safe anywhere, and Hassan had reach, with Bimmy being his outstretched hand. Elizabeth was close to the city, but a safe distance away from the war, supposedly. In Mafia terms, everyone went to the mattress.
“Kwan, what’s going on?” she asked him nervously.
He ignored her question and continued talking into the phone.
“And where the fuck is that nigga Cash? I saw him there. He was around . . . Nah, fuck that! It ain’t no fuckin’ coincidence he was there. He was driving a Lexus.”
Sophie stood and waited for Kwan to finish with his phone call.
After hanging up, he turned to her. “You talked to that nigga Cash?”
“You know he don’t take my calls. And he doesn’t call me back. What happened today, Kwan?”
“T-Mack, Holland, and Ricky are dead!”
“What?” Sophie was floored by the news.
“It was a setup. They got gunned down in Brownsville.”
“Oh shit!”
“I got lucky. I don’t know what happened, but we got set up. They knew we were coming. I wanna find that snake nigga Tony and have a serious talk wit’ him, and then I’m gonna cut his fuckin’ heart out and feed it to him while it still beats in my fuckin’ hand. And I want you to continue reaching out to Cash.”
“Was Cash really there today?”
“He was.”
“You actually think he had something to do wit’ today?”
“Sophie, don’t be naïve! He was there, looking all smug in that fuckin’ Lexus. You and I both know he was still fuckin’ wit’ that
bitch Pearla.”
Sophie looked dubious about the accusations Kwan was throwing out about the man she was once in love with. Was maybe still in love with. The unenthusiastic look on her face caught Kwan’s attention. He had an idea what was going through her head. The mention of Cash sent her into a tailspin of emotions.
“You still on that nigga’s dick, ain’t you?” He stepped closer to her, frustrated with his sister’s emotions for a nigga who played her and used her. “Cash don’t give a fuck about you!” he reminded her. “He left your fuckin’ bedside that night to run and be wit’ that bitch, and she already had a nigga! What you got? Shit! The nigga gotta go, Sophie, and you need to keep reaching out to that muthafucka.”
“I know,” she replied dryly.
He added, “We took him in, kept him alive, looked out for him, and treated him like family, and he shitted on you and me. You want a nigga like that to keep breathing?”
Sophie knew what Kwan was preaching was true. Cash had betrayed them. She loved and trusted him, and he fucked around on her with his ex-bitch. “I’ll keep calling him. I’ll think of something to get his attention.”
“You do that.”
Kwan paced around the living room, seething. He didn’t know what to do with himself. Three of his best hitters were dead; it was a major setback. He had other killers on standby, but they weren’t thoroughbreds like the men he’d lost today.
“What you gonna do, Kwan?” Sophie asked him.
“I’ma kill ’em all. And, Cash, I’m gonna take my time killing him.”
Sophie stood there looking blank at her brother’s statement. She sighed and retreated into her bedroom while Kwan busied himself with one phone call after another, preparing for battle.
Everything was starting to escalate, and she felt that it would get worse before it got better. Thinking about Cash, she wished it had worked out better between them. The sex was amazing, and she’d almost felt that their love was unconditional.
Thirteen
Pearla followed the GPS instructions, crossing over the Verrazano Bridge and arriving in Staten Island. She was on her way to see Cash.
The House that Hustle Built, Part 3 Page 7