T
HE RIDE
was shorter than he had remembered it, Gutter thought to himself as the Regal exited off the East Pacific Coast Highway, near the community hospital. Though the area had changed quite a bit since Gutter had last been there it still brought back memories. From gunfights to chasing trim, he and Lou-Loc had seen more of their fair share of action on the Long Beach streets.
Snake Eyes drove, while Gutter occupied the passenger seat. Rahkim was glaring out the window, smoking cigarette after cigarette, while Danny shifted around nervously under the weight of the carbine rifle on his lap. Gutter wondered for the umpteenth time if he made the right decision in letting Danny come to California with him. The war was still in full swing, but the rules had changed. There was no more etiquette between the crews, just who had the highest body count. It had been years since Gutter had found himself in the thick of it, but the animal that had rocketed him to ghetto star status still lurked beneath the surface and
would react accordingly when and if it came to it, but would Danny be able to stand the test of fire? At the end it had been Danny's choice. Gutter made no secrets about the lifestyle he led and what it meant to be a true banger. Twenty-four/seven you rode for the cause in any and all things. From mayhem to murder, you either put in work or you didn't join up, simple as that.
Trailing them in the blue Escalade were Tears, Criminal, Jynx, and the big homey Ren from Four Duce Gangster. Jynx had a presence in Long Beach, so that automatically put the odds in their favor with that as the meet spot. Big Ren was the blue-collar cat, always willing to ride for the cause. He had been putting in work for almost twenty years and showed no signs of slowing down. Though he was a brutal cat, Gutter had brought him along for more strategic reasons. He would be their insurance policy to make sure Trik played fair.
“You think these niggaz gonna keep it funky, or try to pull something?” Danny asked from the backseat, snapping Gutter out of his daze.
He turned to his protégé. “I don't really know, but I know we gonna be prepared for whatever.”
“Shit, I hope these niggaz do trip so I can put something hot in a bitch-ass oh-la.” Rahkim brandished his Desert Eagle.
“Why don't you put that shit away, Rah, before you accidentally shoot one of us or get us pulled over,” Snake Eyes suggested. He had been tight with the Soladines for years, but because Rah was always in and out of prison he had never gotten a chance to know him. Rahkim was a wild card and Snake Eyes didn't quite know what to expect from him. What he did know was that if Gunn's little brother decided to trip it would lead to unnecessary bloodshed, something nobody wanted.
“Little cousin, I've been on one since you and Gutter's asses
was both just wanna-Cs, don't tell me how to go about mine,” Rah responded, placing the gun on his lap.
“Rah, ain't nobody trying to tell you how to do nothing, but Snake Eyes is right. The streets is already on fire over this shit that happened with Gunn and the last thing we need is to get pulled over for some dumb shit,” Gutter told him.
“Whatever, nephew.” Rahkim sucked his teeth and went back to staring out the window.
Gutter just shook his head. He knew that Rahkim was going to be a headache, but there was no way he could've left him behind. Next to himself, Rah was the most experienced combat solider, so if things got ugly he would be invaluable. Not only that, Gunn had been his older brother and the man responsible for putting him on the set. He had just as much right, if not more, to be included as anybody.
When they reached the hood, they didn't bother reading the street signs to see where they were because the walls told it all. Insane, Rolling 20's, Dawgz, S.S. (Sons of Samoa), the ruling factions of Long Beach, California, made sure you knew exactly where you were and who was on top.
When they turned down Nineteenth Street you could immediately feel the tension. Various groups of Mexicans were partying in their yards, slinging or just enjoying the weather. Though neither set represented in the two cars had a current beef with the Chicanos, the relations between blacks and browns in Long Beach had always been fragile. Danny must've picked up on it too because he got a firmer grip on his rifle. When they stopped at the red light, a vato who had been resting on a deck stood up and eyeballed them. Gutter turned his sinister eyes on the Mexican, but didn't try to provoke a situation. The Mexican shouted something to one of his home boys that nobody really heard over the music,
but whatever it was caused the man to stand next to his comrade and join in the staring contest. When Gutter refused to turn away under the glare of the two hard-asses, the second Mexican threw up Eighteenth Street, which was one of the most notorious Latino sets on the West Coast.
Rahkim gripped his pistol and reached for the window switch on the Regal, but Gutter locked it, giving him a stern look. Reluctantly, Rahkim let the young man slide as they passed through the green light and continued on their way. He understood that Rahkim was fuming over what had happened to his brother and was ready to bust on just about anyone, but the brash young soldiers from Eighteenth Street weren't their targets that night, the Swans were.
“Don't trip on it, Unc, them young boys is just stunting,” Gutter said, trying to soothe Rah. “If they mug us again when we bail through, then we can kill'em
together,
right now we got more pressing business.”
Rahkim nodded, but didn't necessarily like it. He had been in prison during the time the treaty was signed and things had died down among the sets. Much like his older brother he came up in the era when banging was in full effect. Whether it was an enemy, or a rival set trying to front, you laid your murder or knuckle game down; diplomacy was a foreign thing to him.
When the Regal turned into the church parking lot there were three cars already there, idling. In the darkened lot there was no way to tell how many people were in the cars, but Gutter was sure that the vehicles were lousy with Brims. The Crips were the ruling force in Long Beach so there was no way a Blood as notorious as Trik would come through the city without a heavy security detail, as Gutter had already anticipated, which is why Lil Blue and a few of the other locs had come down ahead of them and were strategically
placed around the block. If Trik and his people had come to do anything other than talk they were going to be in for quite a surprise as Lil Blue and his team had orders to shoot to kill.
“Shit, how many of them do you think it is?” Danny asked.
“I don't know, cuz, so you just make sure you're on point for the bullshit,” Gutter said.
“These muthafuckas frog-up you better let that muthafucka bark,” Rahkim told Danny, motioning toward the carbine on his lap. “On Crip, cuz, lay everything down that ain't the right color!”
Gutter stepped out of the Regal, followed by Snake Eyes and Rahkim. Tears, Jynx, and Ren got out of the Escalade and came to stand at Gutter's side. No one spoke, but everyone knew what time it was. Gutter, Jynx, Rahkim, Ren, and Snake Eyes moved carefully toward the line of cars, while Tears and the others watched for signs of trouble.
In the quiet darkness the sounds of car doors opening and closing could be heard. There were five men approaching, to match the numbers Gutter had with him. The first three he only knew to be foot soldiers from Swan, but the last two Gutter was familiar with. Mongo was Pudgy's little brother, but there was nothing small about the man. He stood a towering six feet six and was built like the Incredible Hulk, with bulging arms and legs like tree trunks. Whereas Pudgy was more the diplomat, Mongo was a straight beast. He had killed more than his fair share of Crips and Bloods during his twenty-one years on earth and the look on his face said that he was thinking about adding to his list of bodies that night.
Bringing up the rear was a man who, though he was of a very average size, radiated menace. He was dressed in freshly pressed tan khakis and a red-and-black flannel shirt that was buttoned at the neck. His long, Jheri-curled hair hung from beneath his wool Raiders skully like only the world outside him had changed since
1989. His black eyes were tired and haggard as if some weird death scene played over and over behind them. Stopping a few feet short of where Gutter and his people were, he gestured that the next move was theirs.
Being a war vet himself Gutter understood that the man was still unsure about how far he could trust them. Since the war first kicked off the older cat had been on the front line racking up a long dossier of enemies. People like him were forever doomed to live on the edge of life and death, not knowing when or where their numbers would be called. As Gutter examined him he wondered if he wasn't looking at a sneak preview of what he was to become, if he even lived to see that age.
The tension between the two clicks was so tight that you could almost feel the very air constricting around your throat. Gutter nodded to his comrades and matched the man's steps, until they were within a few feet of each other. In the still of the night in a darkened Long Beach parking lot Gutter stood toe-to-toe with not only a sworn enemy, but the man who held the secret to Gunn's murder: O.G. Trik.
D
IRT BILL
was finally starting to have fun. The girls saw him with Goldie and Hollywood so they thought he was someone important. For the past twenty minutes he had been in the ear of a sensual chocolate gem, trying to get her head rates to drop from sixty to thirty-five. He was finally starting to make headway when he felt someone bump past him to get to the bar.
“Pardon me,
Blood,
” Major Blood said, squeezing up to the bar.
“Loc, I ain't ya Blood, that shit don't rock up here. This Harlem, cuz,” Dirty Bill said, not even recognizing the threat.
“Word? I thought we were in the Bronx?” Major said sarcastically with his hand casually at his side.
In every group there was one. A cat so quick to make a show that he doesn't bother to assess the situation or measure the odds. Nine times out of ten it's gonna end nasty, but the poor bastard has gotta make a show of it. This was the case when a cat that had been kicking it with Bill decided to add his two cents to the mix. “Harlem Crip, nigga. Fuck is you smoking?” the kid snarled.
“Crabs!” Major said, placing one of his guns under the kid's chin. The kid opened his mouth to say something, but Major Blood put a bullet through his chin and out the top of his head.
Goldie moved with the grace of a jungle cat as he grabbed the stripper closest to him and held her in front of him like a shield. In true gangsta style he hoisted his pistol and started busting back at Major Blood, who was scrambling to get out of the way.
“Not in my muthafucking house!” Desire, who was the bartender, shouted as she came up from behind the bar with a pump. The twenty-two-year-old bartender might've weighed about a hundred and ten pounds on a good day, but she had the heart of a giant. The burst went wild, shredding through a beam and an unlucky patron, but never touching anything from the red side. Tito bounded on top of the bar and placed his gun to her forehead. Desire pursed her lips to spit in his face, but ended up kissing the barrel as her brains squirted onto the Coronas in the cooler.
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HOLLYWOOD LAY
back in the leather recliner with one foot slung across the arm, while Lexi gave him some gangsta-ass head. Hollywood suspected that she was about her business from the way she came at him, but the love boat ride she was currently giving him would net a mint on the streets. He needed to have this little freak bitch with him.
Hollywood was about to crack for the pussy when a faint noise caught his attention. The office was soundproofed from the music on the main floor, but there was no mistaking the sound of a gunshot. He lifted his head to say something to Lexi and barely got out of the way as a switchblade came whizzing past his chin. Lexi looked up with murder in her eye and bellowed,
“Die crab!”
Hollywood was stunned by what was unfolding, but he shouldn't
have been. From the time Lexi opened her mouth at the bar she smelled like a snake, but Hollywood let his dick send mixed signals to his brain and now he was caught literally with his pants down.
“That's on Blood I'm gonna open yo pretty ass up,” Lexi vowed, jabbing at him with the blade. When she came with a wild swipe, Hollywood made his move. Throwing himself backward in the recliner he brought his knees up into Lexi's chin, snapping her head back and throwing her off balance. Instead of trying to get farther away from Lexi and her blade, Hollywood threw himself in her direction. He tried to knock Lexi to the floor so he could pen her, but miscalculated his lunge and was only able to subdue one arm. By the time he realized his mistake the razor was grazing his jaw.
Hollywood never felt the cut, but he knew something was terribly wrong when his face got moist. Lexi had opened him up from his earlobe to his lower lip with more precision than a surgeon. Hollywood didn't have to see it to know that his beautiful face was ruined, and thus his pockets would take a hit. To this day nobody really knows if it was the vanity in Hollywood or the fact that Lexi had cut him, but he slammed his fist into her skull so hard that it cracked, breaking his hand in the process.
“Con'n bitch.” Hollywood kicked her in the ribs as he took stock of his hand. There was no doubt that his right hand would be no good to him that night, but he could shoot just as well with his left he thought as he grabbed his hammer off the desk where he'd left it before the near fatal blow job, and headed for the office door.
As soon as Hollywood opened the office door, a bullet slammed into it. The club he had vested so much in was being shot up and torn apart like a saloon. Three Spanish-looking cats were by the
entrance wilding the fuck out. He recognized Tito and Miguel, but the light-skinned kid with the braids was a new face. From the way he was clapping shit up that had to be the infamous Major Blood. The way they were cutting loose it would only be a matter of time before the Crips were overrun.
Hollywood boogied back to the office desk and wrapped on it a series of times, popping a false panel out of the side. Nestled in the panel was the grand opening gift Wiz had given him. Tucking his pistol into his waistband and checking the barrel of the gift, Hollywood stepped out onto the main floor.
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THERE WERE
five of them in all; five lambs who had successfully escaped the slaughter. They had all began the night with different reasons for hitting the spot, but they were exiting with a common thought
; survival.
When the shooting had started everyone broke for it. Drinks were abandoned and some of the girls jetted wearing nothing but thong and clear heels. Outside meant life, so in a massive wave they pushed for the door.
Eddie knew they'd be coming, but he was still startled when the club doors flew open and people began spilling out onto the street. None of them were Crip soldiers, but they had all been sentenced to death. How many innocents would die that night to claim the life of one enemy?
“Live by it, die by it,” Eddie told himself, stepping off the curb.
A big butt stripper, whose weave was sitting at a funny angle from her frantic exit, was making swift strides in Eddie's direction. Eddie laughed at how funny she looked trucking on the six-inch heels to keep his mind off her face, which had twisted into a horrid mask as the bullets from the Mac ripped up her chest. As her blood drained into the gutter at Eddie's feet he thought how Major had
surely condemned him to hell. But he would rather pay in the afterlife than go against Major Blood in this one. With that thought in mind Eddie began sweeping the crowd with the machine gun.
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THERE WERE
so many people trying to get out of the crosshairs that Miguel could barely raise his gun, let alone get a shot at the wild man, Goldie. It seemed like every time he even thought about pulling the trigger someone darted out in front of him. The whole spot was thrown into utter chaos, and from the look on Major Blood's face he was enjoying every minute of it.
Through the tangle of arms and heads Miguel could see Goldie now had his back to him. With a smirk at the stripes he would get for smoking Goldie, he took aim and pulled the trigger ⦠. A split second later he felt the intense heat.
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“IS THIS
a private party, or can anybody join in?” Hollywood capped before pulling the trigger on the oddly shaped sawed-off.
The recoil from the Dragon-Mouth round was so powerful that the gun almost flew out of Hollywood's hand. Even with the stalk braced against his hip the weapon was difficult to control with only one hand. The aftermath of the blast was thick smoke hanging in the air and the smell of sulfur damn near choking Hollywood, but seeing the carnage the blast had caused made it almost worth the vomit that was trying to escape the back of his throat. Wiz had warned against firing the thing in close quarters and now he understood why.
The young Chicano had come up with some very interesting gadgets over the years, but the Dragon-Mouths were the best yet. A Dragon-Mouth was a shotgun shell that had magnesium shavings
and mercury packed in with the gunpowder. When the pellets burst from the casing they ignited, making the spray look like a horde of tiny fireballs.
Miguel was barely able to throw himself out of the way as the embers ignited his clothing and singed his cheek. The more he swatted at the flames the more they seemed to spread. Man's natural fear of fire caused him to momentarily forget his enemies and try to strip out of his jacket. This gave Goldie a clear window.
The first bullet hit Miguel high in the shoulder and sent him stumbling forward. When he turned around, Goldie hit him twice more in the chest. Miguel crashed into the bar, sending abandoned glasses and bottles spilling to the floor. The last thing he would see in his young life was the grin on Goldie's face as he sent a fatal round through his cheek.
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HOLLYWOOD NARROWLY
missed the barrage of bullets Tito sent his way, as the edge of the bar provided him with a minute to breathe. It felt like slugs were coming from every direction at once, and even with the Dragon-Mouth he and Goldie were in a tight spot.
“Cuz, we gotta make for the back!” Goldie shouted from over his shoulder.
“You'll get no argument from me,” Hollywood said, sliding another shell into the gun. “When I let this bitch rock, be ready to bust a move!”
“Solid,” Goldie said, still clutching the girl.
Hollywood popped from behind the bar and fired, holding the sawed-off in a one-handed grip. The kick knocked his aim off a bit, but it didn't affect the damage inflicted as the fiery pellets ignited everything in their path. While Major Blood and Tito dove for cover, Hollywood broke for the back door.
Dirty Bill, who had all but been forgotten, saw his chance and made the mad dash. He fired his gun over his shoulder, not really hitting anything, and moved as fast as he could toward the back door. Seeing his comrade dart out into his line of fire gave Goldie pause, and this was all the time Major Blood needed to react. He gave Goldie one to the chest and flipped him backward. Dirty Bill never even cast a glance at the man who he called friend as he disappeared toward the back.
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BILL ALMOST
broke his neck getting to the fire door. When the bullet struck the wall just above his head he almost shitted his pants. Hollywood was hot on his heels. He knew the homeys were sure to brand him a sucker for the stunt he pulled so he reasoned he might as well kill Hollywood to keep the story from getting out.
Without breaking his stride Bill lowered his shoulder and crashed through the fire door. The emergency siren went off, but Billy couldn't hear it over the sound of his own heart thudding in his ears. He knew he was free at the moment the cool air hit him, but the thought quickly left his brain as a bullet exploded in it.
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“HOW'S HE
holding up?” Sharell called over her shoulder.
“I can't stop the bleeding,” Satin said nervously as she pressed her hands over the hole in Mohammad's back. He was lying across the floor of the backseat with a dreamy look in his eyes.
“Mohammad, we should really get you to a hospital,” Sharell said, weaving the X5 in and out of traffic.
“No,” Mohammad said weakly. “We can't risk the police getting involved. Here.” He handed her his cell, which was slick with
blood. “Call Anwar, and tell him where we're going. He'll send someone.”
“But what if you bleed to death before help comes?” Satin asked.
“Then it will be what it will be. Just keep driving until we get to the address. Anwar will take care of everything,” he told her before closing his eyes.
“Mohammad, Mohammad!” Satin shook him. At first she thought he was dead, but his eyes fluttered open.
“Not to worry, Sharif won't let the reaper have me. He's promised as much,” Mohammad assured her.
“Sharell, delirium is setting in. I don't think he's going to make it.”
“Mohammad, don't you go dying on us, you hear me?” Sharell called to him, but there was no answer. She spared a glance over her shoulder to see that he was still breathing, but barely. “Lord, please don't take him,” she whispered, flipping Mohammad's phone open to call Anwar.