The Game Never Ends

by Zaire Crown

  She slipped into the alley that ran behind the businesses on Wilshire. After pulling the file from her Chanel bag, she ripped a thigh-high slit along the seam of her skirt to free her legs. In the same moment the second pair stepped into the alley at the corner and Tuesday struck out at a full sprint.

  Her phone rang from inside her bag, most likely Brandon returning her call, but she couldn’t answer it. She barely had a head start on her pursuers and it was hard enough trying to maintain that lead in bare feet while navigating all the broken glass and debris littering the ground.

  Tuesday was headed back the way she had come on Wilshire. She figured if she could beat them back to the car then she could get away in the Benz. Tuesday had run track for a semester in middle school, and even though she wasn’t as lean, still retained a portion of her speed.

  She was redlining, yet the two giving chase were easily outpacing her. The one in the red shirt was faster than the dude in the purple; Tuesday looked back and saw that Red was only about ten feet behind her and closing. Tuesday’s foot landed in a puddle of cold brown liquid she didn’t want to identify; she stumbled but kept her balance, cringed with disgust but didn’t slow down.

  Then for whatever reason, both men began to slack off. Tuesday couldn’t tell if they were exhausted or what, but they slowed their pace from a sprint to a jog and allowed her to extend her lead. Tuesday didn’t question it, just zipped past the huge industrial garbage dumpsters until there was about forty yards between them. As she neared the outlet, she planned two quick lefts to double back onto Wilshire and the Mercedes.

  One more glance at the duo behind her showed them moving at a brisk walk, and when Tuesday looked forward again, she understood why they could afford not to hurry. The first two she encountered on Wilshire, Blue Shirt and Green Shirt, had rounded the corner and cut off her exit. Both had guns in hand.

  A set of killers were approaching from both ends of the alley while the scarred brick and graffiti-laced rears of commercial real estate flanked her on either side. She was trapped.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The colorful quartet slowed their approach as if sensing she were stuck. All were armed but not one had fired a shot. Tuesday didn’t know if their plan was to kill her slowly or take her somewhere else to possibly be raped first. She had no intention of being easy prey. A talented artist had spray painted “Get down or lay down” on the wall in elaborate script. Tuesday refused to do either.

  They closed in on her and Tuesday thought she had nowhere else to run. She was ready to make her stand right there. She would force them to kill her, choosing death over whatever violation they may have had in mind.

  Then she noticed a narrow fence to her right that separated two closely-set properties. It was ten feet high and capped with razor wire, but a gap had been cut into the chain-link as if with bolt-cutters. Tuesday rushed to slip between the breach and safely made it through, aside from her blouse getting ripped.

  She found herself in a narrow gangway that separated large warehouses. She took off in search of help.

  As she ran she could hear the metallic rattle of the rainbow boys coming through the fence behind her. The sound was punctuated by several shots from a large-caliber gun which pushed Tuesday’s fear-driven legs into a higher gear.

  After running down a long straightaway, she made a right and then another before realizing she was in a system of these gangways. The abandoned industrial complex held dozens of two-story warehouses. She tried to find her way back to the street but each turn took her deeper into a maze of identical structures.

  Tuesday ran by large cargo doors used for loading and offloading trucks. Frantically she tried the service doors, but each one that she came across was secured with a padlock.

  While she no longer saw the armed men, she could feel them stalking her. They were only a turn or two behind her. She had to keep moving. The phone started to ring again and she snatched it out her bag, still at a run. Tuesday scrambled to answer quickly for fear the noise would give away her location.

  Before Brandon could ask about her message, Tuesday whispered the situation in between gasps. Men were chasing her, she was somewhere off Wilshire lost in what appeared to be the grounds of an old factory.

  Tuesday took a right and saw the one in the blue shirt coming at her from that way. She turned and fled down that aisle in the opposite direction.

  Brandon was in her ear trying to guide and calm her, not doing well at either. Tuesday kept running, taking random lefts and rights, changing her course when she saw one of them. She couldn’t fathom how she still hadn’t reached the perimeter. She knew the complex was huge but guessed that she was going in circles.

  She darted into an intersection, had to turn left to avoid Purple, and left again to avoid Green. She barely escaped the second; she bent a corner just as he raised his pistol.

  Brandon said, “Look, I’m going to track your phone. If you can, try to find a place to hide until I get there.”

  Tuesday killed the line and sought to do just that, but every door she encountered was locked.

  Tuesday was breathing heavily. She hadn’t been working out with Shaun and her cardio had suffered. If she didn’t get to rest soon, they would be able to track her by the sound of her asthmatic wheeze.

  Tuesday finally spotted the fence-line about two hundred yards in the distance and took off for it, until Red appeared in the cross section ahead of her. She had to brake quickly in her bare feet, turn and go back the way she came. She fled down the gangway, went left at the opposite corner, planned to go around him. After she ran past two more structures, she tried to go right again, but Blue was standing in that aisle waiting on her. Before she could respond, Purple was coming from the east to flank her.

  She dodged them but had to retreat deeper into the complex. Tuesday detected a strategy at play. They seemed to be working together to keep her away from the outer fence.

  She passed one of the buildings decorated with more graffiti. The gold and jeweled headpiece of an English monarch was rendered with expert skill, the words “Down for my Crown,” spray-painted under it in block lettering.

  She sprinted into another intersection, and didn’t see the goon in green coming from the perpendicular aisle. He apparently didn’t see Tuesday either. They slammed into each other hard. The contents of Tuesday’s purse spilled on the cement when she dropped it.

  The collision stunned them both. But in that moment Tuesday saw the gun in his right hand coming up and reacted without thinking.

  She didn’t even realize she had been holding the nail file this entire time until she jammed it into his throat. She shivved him three quick times like an inmate on a level-four prison yard.

  He stumbled backwards into the wall, his trembling fingers reached up to the leaking holes in his neck. The youngster’s brown eyes stared into her gray, his look one of disbelief. He went limp and sagged to the ground, his blood smearing the brick. A grisly creation of her own art.

  Tuesday didn’t wait for him to die because the crimson stain spreading across his shirt in tune to his pulse was proof he wasn’t long for this world. She didn’t bother to collect all the items that fell from her purse. She only grabbed her phone and his gun before she bolted.

  Those narrow passages were starting to feel claustrophobic. The constant fear that one of them would be waiting at each corner taxed her nerves as much as all the running taxed her legs.

  They were getting close. Tuesday could hear one of them screaming and assumed they had discovered Green’s body.

  After a pained cry, he shouted, “Bitch, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you. I’m not fuckin’ around anymore. Hear me bitch!”

  Tuesday heard but kept moving. There was one less to deal with but fatigue wouldn’t let her keep running.

  She shot by another warehouse, or perhaps she had passed by this same one several times, but it was the first she saw that had a service door without a lock. It opened when she tested the knob. Her leg
s were tired and her feet were aching so she hoped she had found a place to hide until Brandon came for her. She hurried inside, closed the door behind her.

  The interior was dark, but a few dust-covered skylights allowed her to trace the outline of huge machines whose purpose she could not define. She stood still for a moment, listening for the sound of scurrying rats; without shoes she was cautious for anything that may come along to gnaw at her toes. She crept around those rusty metal relics of the industrial revolution, prehistoric beasts rendered extinct by Google, Amazon and Facebook.

  When someone snatched the door open, Tuesday hurried to hide behind one of the machines. She watched as Red and Purple split up to search for her. She guessed the one in blue might be waiting outside in case she got slick and tried to slip out behind them.

  But she had Green’s gun and that changed everything. She could do more than just play defense now. With each one she killed, she tilted the odds more in her favor.

  Towards the rear of the building there were no windows, and there the darkness was nearly pitch black. Tuesday intended to use that as her ally. She retreated into those shadows and searched for a place to set up her ambush. She hoped for a storage closet or a maintenance locker.

  Tuesday was moving by touch when she suddenly was blinded by harsh light. She heard a lot of feet approaching along with the distinctive sound of guns cocking.

  Tuesday blinked her sight back into focus to see she was caught up in the high-beams of three burgundy SUVs. A dozen men with assault rifles surrounded her in ski masks and black tactical gear. She threw down her gun and kicked it away when they commanded her.

  A woman jumped out one of the SUVs overdressed in a stylish Dior romper and short leather jacket.

  “I expected you twenty minutes ago.”

  La Guapa stood before her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “It’s easy to control people. The hard part is giving them the illusion of choice.” Reina stood, backlit by the high beams of two more cranberry-colored Tahoes and a Range Rover with the same paint. “Every turn you could’ve made or hurdle you could’ve jumped had already been factored into the equation. It was cold, hard math and my math is never wrong.”

  Another elaborate trap, just like the one she set for her and Marcus at Dominic’s. And just like at Dominic’s, Tuesday had realized too late. From the moment she jumped out of the car she had been herded. The alley, the slit in the fence, this unlocked building; it was all a manipulation to bring her right to that spot.

  Someone brought up the building lights, giving the ladies a clear view of each other. Tuesday knew she had to look a mess: sweaty, hair tossed, ripped skirt, runs in her stockings. Of course, La Guapa looked ready to grace the cover of Vanity Fair. Black hair spilled over her shoulders, her makeup flawless.

  Seeing her uncorked all the negative emotions Tuesday had been holding back since Marcus stopped calling. “What happened at the meeting?”

  “The same thing that’s going to happen here. I’m going to make you a very generous offer and hopefully you’ll be smart enough to accept it.

  “Sebastian left you as the majority shareholder of Abel Incorporated. I don’t know if you’re aware, but those shares are extremely valuable and I represent a consortium of investors who are willing to pay you a fair price for them.”

  Tuesday frowned at her. “You and yo’ little cartel buddies ain’t ’bout to put the squeeze on me. I saw the news, I know the feds all up in y’all ass right now. Well you can suck my dick from here to San Francisco, ’cause ain’t shit for sale.”

  La Guapa shook her head. “Oh sweetie, I know how convincing that man can be. Let me guess, he slid that ten-inch python in you and whispered in your ear all this flowery nonsense about his legacy and making amends for his past ways.”

  She smirked. “Trust me, I know how potent that dick is. The last time I saw him, I just sat on it for two hours.”

  Tuesday didn’t feed. She bit back her lips in a way that looked like she was returning the grin. “Don’t even try to play mind games wit’ me bitch.”

  “Funny you should say that, considering I just had you playing one of my favorite games without you even knowing.”

  Tuesday got impatient. “Whatever this is right here, we ain’t finna do this cheesy shit where we try to match wits with each other.” She scanned the black-clad men surrounding her with automatic weapons. “So whichever one of y’all is supposed to put the bullet in my head, bring it on. Or else I got places to be.”

  La Guapa combed her fingers through her hair. “You are such a tough little hoodrat, aren’t you? Tuesday, even you should be able to see that I could’ve killed you any number of ways before now if I wanted you dead. The driver while you slept, an actual explosive placed in your car. Any one of my ghosts who pushed you here could’ve accomplished that with a well-placed bullet. Do you really think you’re fast enough to out-race a gun, especially with those thighs?”

  The remaining members of the Loud Shirt Crew had joined them, and when La Guapa motioned for it, the one in blue passed her his gun. She pointed it at Tuesday’s face and pulled the trigger three times.

  The loud bangs made Tuesday jump, flinch, and cringe. The muzzle flashed but nothing came from the barrel but short coughs of warm air.

  “It’s a prop just like they use in the movies.” La Guapa put the pistol to her own head, pulled the trigger then tossed it back to Blue. “Gunpowder but no lead.”

  “She killed Emilio!” Red Shirt stood over to the side. His broad shoulders rose and fell with each breath. “She stabbed him in the fuckin’ neck.”

  Tuesday remembered the stunned expression on the face of Green Shirt, as if he never intended for their little game to become deadly. His blood still coated her hand. “I guess she didn’t factor that into her math.”

  Red said, “La Guapa, I demand a life for a life.”

  La Guapa turned a cold eye to his insolence. “You don’t get to make demands here. If your brother is dead it is because of his own carelessness.”

  She turned back to Tuesday. “Sebastian was a brilliant man, but still, he was just a man and all of them are the same—they reason through their penises then use their minds to justify the choice. He saw those sparkling green eyes and that big ghetto booty and fell in love. Then he attempted to justify that choice by trying to transform an uneducated girl from the streets into something respectable.

  “But in being honest with yourself, you know you belong at the head of that corporation as much as I, with my two Ph.D.’s, belong in a strip club twerking for dollar bills. He may have given you a fake name and a forged Master’s degree, but even you know you’re in over your head. You’re not smart enough to run Abel, and deep down, I don’t think you really want to. He’s forcing you to be a prop, Tuesday, just like they use in the movies.”

  Tuesday let her gaze drop just for an instant. It wasn’t much, but enough for a predator like La Guapa to see weakness.

  She took a step closer. “Abel was his vision, not yours. Reflect back on those nights lying with men who disgust you just for a chance to steal their crumbs. From the start, your vision was only about making a huge score—and now you’ve done that. The number we agreed on for your shares was three hundred and twenty-five million. You can add to that another four percent of our annual profits from the incoming shipments in perpetuity. But between us girls that number is negotiable. We’re willing to go as high as six.”

  The calculation on Tuesday’s face made the Mexican Barbie flash her luminous smile.

  She continued: “And the entire deal will be above board, no back-alley cash drops or shady offshore accounts. We’ve already formed a legitimate company funded with enough assets to perform the buyout, even pulled some strings inside the Security Exchange Commission to get the deal pre-approved. All you have to do is sit down with the attorneys and start the paperwork.”

  Tuesday wasn’t trying to do the math to see if she could squeeze out a few more
percent. She had only heard everything La Guapa said up until three hundred and twenty-five million. After that her words turned to static.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Sebastian made a decision with his heart; I need you to use your head.”

  Tuesday seemed to be considering her offer in the silence that hung. “My head tells me that if my stake is worth three hundred million now, in a company that’s trending upward, then it’ll be worth a lot more in the future. My head also tells me that if your shipments can’t make it across the border then your business can’t survive for much longer, so all I have to do is bide my time and wait for you to die out.

  “On the flipside, my heart tells me not to sell out my husband for any amount of money. It’s not my company anyway. He told me to protect it and I’m gone do that ’til he comes back.”

  La Guapa looked at her with pity.

  “The company is yours to sell. Sebastian is gone. It was probably the most difficult thing I ever had to do.”

  Tuesday peered into her pretty brown eyes and saw something that resembled pain. The combination of anger and regret in her stare provided more proof for Tuesday than anything La Guapa could’ve said. Marcus was the type of man who could stir emotions so deeply within a woman that after twenty years she would still want him dead then be crushed by the loss. Tears sprang up in La Guapa’s eyes; Tuesday figured hers had to look the same when her vision blurred.

  “What happened to his body?”

  “Please, Tuesday, don’t travel that road. I can promise you it won’t make you feel any better to know the details.”

  She sneered like a rabid animal. “So you were there? Was you at least woman enough to do it yo’self? Did you have the heart to look him in the eye while it happened?”

  La Guapa wiped her cheeks. “Would it make you respect me more to know I did it myself? Would I earn some level of street credibility with you, or do you just want the validation from knowing I thought so highly of him that I stooped to do it personally?”