Nude Awakening II (19 page)

Trevon's ego was growing by the moment. He continued to fuck Brooke Vee as she came around his dick. Showing no emotions toward her, he turned her on her stomach and then pushed back inside her. Brooke Vee bit the pillow to muffle her moans as Trevon filled her pussy once again. Trevon kept his composure in check when he pounded Brooke Vee to a second climax.

Later in the shower, she slathered his dick with flat licks and noisy slurps until he released his seed on her lips, chin, and titties. Like a true porn star, she rubbed his warm cum all over her breasts and nipples while purring and licking his dick and balls.

CHAPTER

Twenty

Somebody Gots To Die!

A low, dark gray cloud reflected off the glossy black hood of an idling Rolls-Royce Phantom Coupe. D-Hot sat behind the brown leather-wrapped steering wheel leaning against the plush armrest. Picking up his cell phone, he saw it was eight minutes past 9 pm. Sitting up, he looked up and down the dimly lit street. A block away, he spotted two crack heads shambling across the street. Behind him, a few yards away was one of his Toyota Land Cruisers with two of his boys inside. Time was an issue tonight.

D-Hot knew his high-priced coupe would look suspicious in such a shabby neighborhood. It wouldn't matter if he was black or white if the po-po rolled up. The Rolls-Royce would get stopped and searched even if Tyler Perry was driving. D-Hot was clean. It was the Land Cruiser that had him stressed. Sighing, he leaned back against the headrest, wrapping a grip on the black polymer framed .45-caliber five-shot revolver, hoping he wouldn't have to use it tonight in the streets of Carol City.

“Niggas better hurry the hell up!” he grumbled just as the first sheets of rain speckled the windshield. He closed his eyes and then hummed a new beat he was working on. The rain suddenly broke, pelting the fixed roof of the Phantom Coupe. D-Hot jerked up and then glanced at his cell phone again. Only three minutes had slid by, testing his patience. He rubbed his face, yawning and scratching his beard. Just as he settled back in the seat, a pair of headlights grew in the driver's side mirror. He paid little interest to the vehicle, but was able to determine the make, color, and model as it drove past under the pouring rain. D-Hot watched the taillights of the green Dodge Challenger fade out of his view. He was so busy looking ahead that he didn't notice the candy purple Dodge Ram pickup creeping behind the Land Cruiser. His cell phone rang.

“Where the hell you at, bruh?” D-Hot said without raising his voice.

“Y'all niggas sleepin'.” Art laughed. “I'm right behind your SUV.”

“What the—” D-Hot was made a believer when Art flashed his lights on and off.

“Yo, there's an unlocked warehouse not too far from here. Follow me ‘cause it's too open out here,” Art explained.

“Alright, man. Whatever—just hurry up so I can get this shit off me.”

Six minutes later, D-Hot stood at the back of the Land Cruiser with Art and Veto at his sides. “Y'all better be happy with these, and yes, I got two of ‘em.” D-Hot pulled the towel off the two brand new assault rifles and then handed one to Art. “It's a—”

“I know what the fuck it is!” Art retorted as he tested the weight and balance of the Smith and Wesson M&P15 M4 tactical rifle.

“Well, these babies had a lil' operation,” D-Hot told them.

Art looked at D-Hot. “You sayin' these motherfucka's are fullies?”

“All the way,” D-Hot answered as Veto picked up the second illegally converted M4 fully automatic rifle.

“You got ammo?” Art asked.

D-Hot leaned into the back of the SUV and pulled out a large backpack. “Here's four 30-round clips and a 120 rounds. If y'all need more than this then y'all fucked up big.”

“We gonna handle our end! Just make sure you handle yours,” Art stated.

“We need to get on the road, my nig,” Veto said, shouldering the backpack.

“Nashlly call you yet?” D-Hot asked Art.

“Yeah. They all still at the studio. Trust me . . . shit goin' down today.”

“You mean tonight,” D-Hot corrected him as he closed the liftgate.

“Let's be out, Veto,” Art said, glaring at D-Hot before he hurried back to the pickup.

Art sped off, leaving D-Hot and his Do-Boys behind.

“You ready to do this?” Veto asked from the passenger seat, loading the clips.

Art was silent for a moment. “Sumthin' ain't right.”

“Speak your mind, my nig,” Veto said, loading another brass round into the clip.

“Check it, right,” Art said with one hand on the wheel. “Jamilah wants Swagga out of the picture so she can collect some life insurance, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Veto nodded.

“An' D-Hot is payin' us, what? Twenty thou' a piece, right?”

“That sounds ‘bout right, my nig,” Veto replied as Art switched lanes to hit a ramp for I-95 North. “So, what ain't right?”

Art's expression was hidden inside the dark interior. “Bruh, you know that big ass dookie green diamond chain that D-Hot got?”

“Yeah. It um, got that Bigg Dog logo piece on it. What about it?”

Art shook his head as he picked up his speed. “Bruh, I found that nigga's chain in Jamilah's bedroom back on Monday.”

“Damn! How the fuck—”

“Ain't say shit to 'er nor his ass.”

“Alright, so what's up?” Veto asked after turning the police scanner on.

“We handle our biz, and then I'll get some answers ‘bout this fuck shit going on behind my back.”

***

Fritz wouldn't consider himself a voyeur since he found no pleasure in viewing others in the act of copulation. Lowering the range finder binoculars from his eyes, he tightened the black poncho over his head and then carefully adjusted his footing in the tree. The steady flow of rain wasn't helping Fritz, but neither would it hinder him. With the binoculars back to his eyes, he read the self-illuminating LED display that told him he was 275 yards away from his target. Scanning the apartment complex, he spotted his target's car 300 yards away, the distance of three football fields.

He smiled, thinking of a name change for the benefit of his trade. “The Mailman” seemed suitable to him since he could strike come rain, snow, sleet or hail. He would strike tonight, quick and fatal.

***

“Yo Rick! You got a call on line four.” A studio assistant with a blond Mohawk shouted from the front desk down the hall.

Rick was down on the first floor chatting with a cute Haitian receptionist in the lounge. “Take a message,” he said, figuring if it was somebody important they would have had his cell number. “So how long have you been working?”

“Yo, they said they got some info on that I-95 shooting.”

Rick quickly excused himself from the receptionist and then hurried down the hall to the front desk. “Hello, who this?”

“Uh, ain't gonna say my name, but I got some info for you.”

Rick tried to match the dude's voice with a face but he couldn't. “What kind of news? And what do you know about that I-95 shooting that wasn't on the news?”

“Listen, and this all I'll say about it. I know about that trip you and Swagga made up to West Palm Beach before the shooting and
that
wasn't on the news.”

Rick motioned the assistant to step off so he could have some privacy. “Okay, I'm sold. What's this info you got for me?”

“Here's your warning. Two niggas in a purple Dodge Ram are somewhere near the studio waiting for y'all to leave, and them niggas ain't playing the radio.”

“And it's real?”

“Ya think? Damn right it's real! Ignore this warning . . . I guess you'll be out of a job by tomorrow because you can't guard a dead man, can you?”

“Alright. I need more—Hello? . . .  Hello?” The line went dead. “Shit!” Rick slammed the cordless phone down, and then ran to the elevator making a call on his cell phone. He couldn't afford to ignore the call, even if it wasn't his life that was on the line. As the elevator took him up to the third floor, his call was connected with a posted bodyguard up in the studio with Swagga.

“Whut up, Rick?”

“Yo, Tweet! We gotta code black. I repeat, code black!”

“Ai'ight. I'm moving now!”

Rick made a second call to one of the two bodyguards that were down in the parking lot watching the three vehicles.

“Yo?”

“Hey Rock, we gotta code black an' this shit is real. Tweet and the boys are moving Swagga as we speak. What y'all holdin' tonight?”

“Uh, me and Bobo packing two Glock nines apiece, and I got a Mac-10 too!”

“Ai'ight. Be on point, and y'all know what to do! If it's the same two from the first time, we gotta be heavy ‘cause them niggas had an AK last time.”

“Okay, dawg. We moving!”

Rick made his last call just as the elevator reached the third floor. He called 9-1-1.

Swagga was in the middle of recording a track when Tweet bullied his way inside the recording booth. Swagga's initial reaction was him snatching his headphones off and shouting, “What the fuck! Don't you see me—”

Tweet uttered two words and grabbed his arm. “Code black!” From day one, Rick had preached to Swagga about the dire seriousness that could initiate a code black. To make sure Swagga knew what to do in such a predicament, Rick had explicitly stated, “Don't ask no questions! Just shut the fuck up and move! Let me and my men do our job, simple as that.”

Swagga was sandwiched between two of his bodyguards as they rushed toward the fire exit. He knew shit was dead ass when Tweet paused to check the fire exit with a black 9-millimeter that was fitted with a laser beam under the barrel. Rushing down the stairs, his heavy chains and diamond pieces bounced off his chest and stomach. Reaching the second floor, Tweet shouted for Swagga to hustle faster. Fear seeped quickly inside of Swagga. He wasn't ready to die. Not tonight.

***

Fritz was in his element. Hunting the prey, clad in black boots and matching cargo pants and T-shirt, he crossed the lit parking lot with his head down. He was aware of the surveillance camera positioned to his left on a lamppost. With the pouring rain it would help distort his features. He walked with a fake limp, knowing the footage would later be reviewed by the police. Even without the fake limp, he would be a ghost, coming and going. Out of the range of the camera, he reached his target's high-priced car. Without pausing in his steps, he reached inside the rear left wheel well and removed the quarter-sized GPS tracking device. He dropped it in his front block-shaped pocket, and then moved into the shadows. From his conceded position, he had a clear view of the first door where his target would soon exit.

Fritz ignored the rain that ran down the bridge of his nose and saturated his clothes. This was luxury in comparison to the last locale where his talents were needed.

Down on one knee, he turned stone like, only his eyes moved. Waiting. Not a minute later he saw two silhouettes in the living room window. The tendons in his legs became tight. He waited. Moving only his right hand, he removed the silenced Glock 19 from a custom holster fitted under his left arm. His breathing slowed as he thumbed the safety off.

Fritz came up out of the puddle he was kneeling in. Still in a squat, he watched his target exit the apartment with a dark colored umbrella.
Perfect!
Fritz thought. The rain beating on the umbrella would most surely cover any sounds of his approach.

His target moved briskly down the sidewalk, keying the alarm and remote starting his car. Fritz stood still, hidden in the shadows behind his target. Easing his finger on the trigger, he moved with a purpose. He sped up when he saw the interior light come on inside the target's ride. He darted between two cars, making his approach from the rear. His target slid inside the car, pausing to close the umbrella. Fritz reached him just as he swung his legs inside the car.

“Excuse me, sir,” Fritz called out.

His target jerked up in the seat, startled by Fritz's sudden appearance. 

“Yeah, what—”

Fritz struck. His finger eased back on the trigger twice. His target moaned in agony after two hollow-point bullets pierced his crotch area. Blood pooled from the lethal wound, turning his target's pants red. Fritz watched him, writhing in pain and gasping for a breath that he would never take. Fritz took three deep breaths, and then he nudged his target with the silenced tip of the Glock-19. His target coughed up blood, not understanding that he couldn't move his leg because he was paralyzed from the waist down. Fritz knew he could walk away and leave the chances of survival of his target up to whatever higher power he believed in.
If
he survived, he would never walk again. Fritz held the Glock steady, nudging his target once more. A heartbeat later, their eyes met. Fritz nodded at his target. Then he shot him three times in the face at point-blank range. The body went lifeless, slumped across the center console with three holes above his left ear and cheek. Fritz was closing the door with his elbow when a scream cracked the silence. In a moment's breath he saw the girl his target had been with. She stood six-feet away on the sidewalk holding an umbrella and wearing a T-shirt and jeans. A cell phone fell from her hand. A cell phone that apparently belonged to his target. She was filling her lungs to scream again. Fritz took it all in, and then coldly shot her twice, once in the forehead and once in the throat before the cell phone clattered to the wet sidewalk.