Ruthless (23 page)

“I can't just sit here and do nothing. He's going to kill her if I don't stop his ass.” I unfasten my seatbelt and reach for the door handle. Lamar reaches over and grabs my arm. Tells me to fall back. That it isn't my fight. Reminds me of why we're out here in the first place. But I'm not interested. I can't idly sit and watch her get beat down like this. The nigga is stomping and kicking the shit out of her.

I glare at Lamar, snatching my arm back. “Look. If you want to sit back and let a nigga beat on a woman, then do you. But I—”

“Chill,” he says, pointing over at them, “ya people's is already on the scene.”

“What?” I glance back over at them as Booty is charging toward them in her heels, swinging a nightstick in the air.

I blink.

She hits him in the back of the head. And he spins around and punches her dead in the mouth. I gasp as Booty stumbles back, then charges at him; fists in full blaze connecting blows to his face and chest.

Then out of nowhere the Dickalina chick springs to her feet and jumps on Booty's back. “Bitch! What da fuck is you doin'?! Ain't no body ask you to jump in my shit, bitch! Stay outta my shit, bitch! You stay mindin' somebody else's gawtdamn business!”

Booty swings her off of her, ripping her blouse open. The two of them start fist fighting. Ass and titties are all on display as they go at it like two jailhouse bitches. Knutz is now trying to break the two of them up. Then out of nowhere the two of them turn around and start fighting him.

“Ohmygod!” I huff as I watch on. “I don't believe this shit. That bitch is real twisted. And now she's attacking him alongside Cassandra.”

“You see
why
I said fall back.”

Niggas start pouring out of the club. Booty yells out something to a young-looking thug who steps up to Knutz and hooks off on him. The two of them go at it. Someone throws a bottle at someone else, then like a wildfire several more fights erupt. Big, burly bouncers in black T-shirts and black slacks race out of the club to break up the mayhem, tossing bodies off of each other. I look on in total disbelief. Right here before my eyes the club's parking lot turns into a damn battlefield and in the center of it all is Booty and her ghetto-trash friend Dickalina.

After several more excruciating minutes of watching, I decide I've had enough of this hood circus. It's already a quarter to two in the morning and the nigga
L
is still nowhere in sight, although his
shiny-new Jag with the personalized license plates is parked over in the VIP section of the club's parking lot.

“Let's go,” I say, fastening my seatbelt into place. “Before this place starts swarming with police.”

“Nah, chill. Not yet. Police ain't rushin' to come out here.” I shoot him a look, raising a brow. He shrugs. “Trust me. A buncha muhfuckas stabbing' ‘n' fuckin' each other up isn't an emergency.” He thrust his chin toward the mayhem. “Look. Here comes ya boy now.”

I look over and there he emerges in the thick of the crowd.

Cocky.

My pulse quickens. A renewed sense of purpose surges through my veins. Followed by disgust. The dark-chocolate nigga is fine as hell. And most likely can have more than his share of pussy whenever he wants it. Yet, this dirty nigga would rather force his dick down in a bitch's throat.

Arrogant sonofabitch!

The image of his hard dick pounds its way into my head. My brain starts reeling. Suddenly, I feel my anger swelling inside of me, pushing up against my chest as he swaggers toward the VIP parking. I grab the black case lying on the seat beside me, clutching it to my thudding chest.

Lamar reaches over and touches my arm, temporarily calming the storm brewing somewhere deep inside of me. “Yo, you aiiight? I already tol' you, I can have this nigga handled for you.”

I slowly shake my head, my eyes trailing my target as he disarms his car. Opens the door, then coolly slides in. “No. He's mine,” I say as he shuts the door of his Jag, starts the engine, pulls out of his space, then peels out of the lot down Halsey Street, the tag
LEGEND
staring back at me.

Lamar pulls out from the curb and trails a safe distance behind as swirling red and blue lights and the frantic whir of sirens finally approach the club.

The silence between Lamar and me allows me to get lost in my own head, thinking and scheming, as he follows six cars behind. The Jag makes its way toward University Heights, traveling along Martin Luther King Boulevard, before making a right onto a side street, then a left. He drives over a few speed bumps into a well-hidden new housing development. Then pulls into an assigned parking space as Lamar pulls into a space in visitor parking, near a large dumpster. A few minutes more, Legend steps out of the car, the door shuts, the lights flash as he sets the alarm, then he's walking up the short walkway to his front door. An end unit. He slides his key in, opens and shuts the door, disappearing inside.

Lamar pulls out of the space and circles around the block before parking over on the next block, directly in back of Legend's end unit. Nervously, I tuck my hair under a black skull cap, then slip my hands into a pair of black Nomex flight gloves as Lamar slips on his. I am an emotional wreck. But I don't let on. I take slow deliberate breaths to keep my insides from shaking uncontrollably.

Seconds later, lights flick on upstairs.
That must be his bathroom,
I think, looking up at the small window in back of his unit. My stare hardens at a silhouette.

Lamar and I sit and wait. Watching and waiting, waiting and watching until all the lights go out. Finally…

At three a.m.

No wrongs go unpunished when you become the judge, jury, and executioner…

M
y heart is pounding, and my gloved hands are drenched with sweat. As Lamar swiftly opens his backpack and pulls out two glass suction cups, creating a vacuum in the center of the sliding glass patio door. In part awe and part terror, I watch him smartly remove a roll of duct tape and cover the entire glass, save an area wide and long enough for us to step through.

In a hushed tone he explains the tape is used as a shock absorber. Then, with skilled precision, he uses a diamond-tipped glasscutter, tracing and retracing the area to be cut out until the lines deepen and the glass thins.

Every little sound out here seems to have become magnified, heightened by my paranoia. I find myself looking over my shoulder and glancing at my watch every several seconds. Sweat is trickling down my spine.

I don't realize that I have been holding my breath all this time until Lamar grabs the handles of the suction cup and slowly removes the cutout portion of glass. He leans it up against the building. Then within minutes, we are slipping into the two-level townhome through the opening.

Panic sets in when Lamar signals with his finger for me to stay
here while he locates the alarm panel. My insides start shaking uncontrollably.

Ohmygod! What the fuck am I doing? On top of all the crazy shit I've already done, or been behind—murder, arson, harassment, assault—I can now add…, even though I'm not here to
steal
anything of value, per se—to the list. Me? A criminal, a murderer!

In a two-week period this is what life has become for me. One vicious fight—for survival, for my freedom and, most importantly, for…retribution.

Lamar is a few paces in front of me, his Glock drawn, his steps catlike, one foot in front of the other, and the weight of his body sinking into his thighs as he moves about the kitchen with purpose and a strange…familiarity.

As if he's been here before.

He mentioned, after he'd slid me the envelope with
L
's photo and I'd hung up with Booty, that his
peoples
had been keeping a
visual
on Legend over the last few days watching how he moves. He'd offered to handle him for me. Said he'd have him stomped out, tell him I sent my regards, then have a bullet put in his dome.

But,
noooo!

I refused. Told him that a beat down and a bullet were too easy. That none of them, particularly this nigga, was worthy of a quick death. That I needed for him to
feel
my humiliation. Needed him to
see
the fire in my eyes. Wanted him to
know
how it felt to be violated. Wanted him to
hear
the chill in my voice when I leaned in and whispered my final words in his ear.

I need to be the first person he sees standing over him when he opens his eyes. And there's no time for mistakes or mishaps. Finally, Lamar reappears, waving me over with a hand. And as I'm trailing behind him through the kitchen, then the dining room, heading
up the carpeted stairs in this sparsely furnished, weed-scented den of sin, I start thinking, wondering…what if?

What if, in the end—after I've doled out my street justice—something unforeseen happens and things go awry and I end up…
dead?

What will the headlines read?

S
UCCESSFUL
H
AIRSTYLIST TO THE
H
OOD
R
ICH AND
F
ABULOUS
F
OUND
M
URDERED
!

O
WNER OF THE
P
OSH &
T
RENDY
N
APPY
N
O
M
ORE
H
AIR
S
ALON
T
ORTURED AND
B
URNED
!

P
ASHA
A
LONA-
N
IVEA
A
LLEN,
C
UM
L
OVER
& L
OVING
M
OTHER
F
OUND WITH HER
T
HROAT
S
LIT
!

D
EEP
T
HROAT
D
IVA
S
UCKS IN HER
L
AST
B
REATH
! B
ODY OF
S
ALON
O
WNER,
P
ASHA
A
LLEN,
F
OUND WITH
U
NKNOWN
M
AN'S
D
ICK
S
TUFFED IN HER
M
OUTH
!

What if this is all a setup? What if Lamar is luring me to my own demise?

What if…?

No, no. It can't be. He wouldn't have burned down those stash houses, or brought me any of the money found in them, if he were playing me.

“Any
thing you need me to handle for you, Pasha. I got you.” That's what he'd said to me, on more than one occasion. He offered up his services to me. I didn't seek him out. Just like when he stepped to me after one of my practice shoots down at the firing range and stated, “I'm diggin' how you handle a weapon. What's a beauty like you needin' protection from?”

I looked him up and down, then cocked my head. “From no-good niggas.”

“Then how 'bout you let one'a the good ones protect you? I'd love to be at your service.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a cardholder, then handed me a white card with
S
ECURITY
/B
ODYGUARD
S
ERVICE
, LLC, written in bold black letters. Two weeks later, I called to inquire about guard service for the salon. And instead of him sending someone from his staff,
he
showed up for duty. That was over ten months ago. Still, maybe that was the plan all along. To have me let down my guard. Get me to trust him. Then
bam!
Do me in. Turn me over to the wolves.

But why would he wait until now?

I switch the leather case from one hand to the other, then slip my free hand down into my jacket pocket, pulling out my .45-mm. I aim the Ruger at his back, just in case.
If I'm going down, nigga, you're going down with me!

I glance over my shoulder, checking to make sure no one is creeping up the stairs behind me, or us. My gut tells me I can trust Lamar. I want to trust him. At this moment…
need
to.

My instincts are all I have.

I relax a little, pushing the disturbing thoughts of being ambushed into a recessed corner of my racing mind as Lamar and I hit the top step and ease down the hall. I tighten my grasp around the case's handle.

My bag of tricks.

There are four doors, one of them closed. Three bedrooms. One bathroom. Slowly, we make our way to his bedroom. I feel like I am floating. Beads of sweat line my forehead. My racing heart and jittery nerves cause me to overheat.

The closer I get to the door, the harder my heart pounds. Adrenaline surges through my veins. The moment is here. Judgment day is finally upon us.

• • •

Lamar reaches the door. His gloved hand is on the doorknob.
He pauses, glances over his shoulder at me. His eyes asking the question his mouth doesn't. “Am I ready?”

I nod.

Slowly, he opens the door, then quietly steps in, his nine-millimeter leading the way. I stay in the back, standing in the doorway, waiting. Watching.

The room reeks of alcohol and weed. Suddenly, a beam of bright light illuminates from a mini Lumen flashlight. Lamar is standing near the bed—a queen-size, four-post bed, shining the light in the face of the snoring figure.

Legend.

“Rise ‘n' shine, dirty muhfucka,” Lamar sneers, poking him in the head with the barrel of his gun. “Look what the Boogeyman brought ya…?”

Legend jumps, clearly startled. “Yo, what the—”

In one swift motion Lamar raises his gun and viciously brings it down on top of Legend's head, then follows up with a barrage of blows to his face and head, knocking his lights out.

If you want to strip a nigga of his manhood, slice off his dick, then fuck him in his ass with it…