Checkmate: The Baddest Chick (23 page)

“What? Who?” Kola looked befuddled.

“Don’t play stupid wit’ me, Kola—I’m talkin’ about Eduardo.”

“We were just about business.”

“Business, huh? Then why a couple months ago, it took you over an hour to complete ya business wit’ that muthafucka?”

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“You know what the fuck I’m talkin’ about.”

“You followed me there?”

“I trusted you, Kola.”

“You wanna talk about fuckin’ trust? How ’bout you and Cynthia having a fuckin’ baby? Making me feel like a stupid bitch. How dare you bring that trust shit up!”

“Well, ain’t no worry about that nigga now. He’s MIA since we ran up on him. And I had my peoples lookin’ for that muthafucka.”

“What?”

“Shit was on the news, but ya young ass is too caught up in the streets and yourself to change the channel from BET or MTV once in a while and see what’s goin’ on in the world. We ran up on him right after you left, shot up his goons, and took what we could.”

“You’re crazy, Cross. Why?”

“’Cuz you and him were fuckin’ playin’ me, so I did what I had to do. I wanted to take that muthafucka out, and we came close.”

It finally made sense to Kola—the threatening phone call she’d received from Eduardo, then her calls being rejected, the feds lingering outside of the building, Eduardo suddenly becoming MIA, and then the hit at her Yonkers stash house. Only Eduardo had the power to pull off a massacre of that magnitude.

Kola knew she was fucked. She glared at Cross. “What the fuck have you done to me?”

“You fucked him, so now I fucked you. Let’s just call it even.”

“I didn’t fuck him!” Kola screamed, catching everyone’s attention in the room. “Fuck you!”

The guards turned and stared at her and Cross, keeping alert.

Cross glared at a few inmates with a menacing look, reminding them to mind their business. His fierce reputation was well known in his housing unit, where he had some allies and some enemies.

Kola pushed her chair back and walked away. She was done with her visit. She was done with Cross. She wanted to get as far away from him as possible. He had to pay for what he’d done.

“Where the fuck you goin’, Kola? We ain’t done yet! Get the fuck over here, bitch!” Cross screamed, jumping from his chair, ready to chase after her. “You don’t fuckin’ walk away from me!”

A few guards rushed over, restraining Cross and grabbing Kola, trying to defuse the situation. Cross was sent back to lock-up, and Kola left the area, feeling sick to her stomach. She had never been so angry.

When Kola made it out of Rikers, stepping off the bus and to her car in the parking lot, she was wishing she’d shot Cross that night instead of Edge. After she got into her car, she thought,
If they robbed Eduardo, then what did Cross do with the money and drugs they took from him?
Then she remembered Edge mentioning cash and weight before he told her about Cross buying that Brooklyn bitch a ring. Everything had to be with Cynthia in Brooklyn. Which meant Cynthia’s life was now in danger.

Kola had held her tears in for too long. Once she was in the privacy of her own car, she felt faint and started to cry. It was a brief moment of weakness. She didn’t know what to do or who to turn to. Everybody she’d once trusted was either dead or had betrayed her.

Kola felt that it was time for her to leave home and break away from what she knew best—the drugs, the sex parties, and the streets of Harlem—and regroup in a different city. She needed to travel to someplace and lay low for a moment. Eduardo was a dangerous and resourceful man. She knew he wouldn’t stop coming for her and everyone else involved with the robbery and murder of his men. Kola was scared. It was the first time she felt the need to run from anyone or anything.

A few hours after her visit with Cross, she went to her mother’s apartment and began packing her things. Then she sped to her home and got the money and guns she needed. She had enough money saved to go anywhere she wanted in the country.

Kola decided on Miami. She had some peoples out there she needed to see. She took what she could, and threw everything into the trunk of her Audi, along with her hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash, and got on the I-95 South for the twenty-four-hour trip to Miami.

CHAPTER 20

T
wo-Face sat slouched in the backseat of the faded black Ford Taurus on 188th Street gripping an Uzi submachine gun. His two cohorts, Narco and Rage, two of New York’s most ruthless thugs, sat in the car with him, waiting and plotting. New York City and Harlem weren’t ready for the murderous Two-Face in their backyard. He had given a violent wake-up call to so many who’d doubted his brutality and murderous ways because of his youthful appearance, people were now afraid to speak his name.

Two-Face killed viciously with anything he could get his hands on: guns, knives, a brick. He even had a man twice his age mauled to death by a ferocious pit bull. The man, accused of being a snitch, was forced into a concrete basement in the gut of the hood and stripped naked in front of his peers.

****

The tall, lanky victim was shaking like a leaf on a windy day. “Please, Two-Face,” he said, “I ain’t do nothin’. C’mon, man, it ain’t gotta be like this. I ain’t say shit to any police!”

“You a snitch, homes. You fucked up, big time!”

The dog barked wildly, its echoing bark sending chills into the man, and its demonic eyes trained on its potential target. The powerful beast was eager to be released.

The other thugs surrounding Two-Face jeered at the snitch and spat on him, each of them looking to gain Two-Face’s respect and approval.

“Fuck him up, Two-Face!” one of them shouted. “Fuck that snitch up!”

The terrier was confident, robust, and bursting with energy. Two-Face gripped the ferocious pit bull by its chain leash. He had a hard time restraining the dog, which constantly yanked him forward, ready to attack.

“Two-Face, please . . . I didn’t do anything! I swear to you, man! I didn’t say shit. I didn’t say shit!” he screamed.

Two-Face locked eyes with the man, his gaze as deadly and intimidating as the dog’s. The black of Two-Face’s eyes showed a cruel, treacherous being that lived for the violence; a man without a soul.

Another thug shouted,
“Do that shit, Two-Face! Do that shit!”

The naked man was cowered into the corner with his hands outstretched in front of him. The whites of his eyes dimmed with fear.

Two-Face sneered at the man. Without warning, he let go of the leash, and the dog rushed forward, slamming its victim into the wall as it tore its teeth into the man’s flesh, ripping apart skin and his fingers.

The victim’s blood-curdling scream brought the basement alive with laughter. The thugs stood around and watched pieces of the man fly in the air, and thick crimson blood began pooling on the floor. The assault went on for fifteen minutes, until the victim was left lifeless and his body contorted like a pretzel.

Two-Face smiled at his method of killing. It felt like Christmas day for him.

Two-Face’s violent killings had placed him on the police and task force radar. When the cops were finally able to attach a face to the name, they were stunned at how young and innocent he looked. They understood why he had gotten the name Two-Face. The precincts made it their priority to bring the young killer and his violent organization, along with Chico, to justice and try him for his inhumane crimes.

Word on the streets started to surface about Chico and Two-Face being at odds with each other. Two-Face began asking around about Chico. He wanted to know why his boss was so insistent about getting information about a prostitute and disfigured whore in Mexico. He wanted to know the connection.

Little by little, information started to come back to Two-Face about Chico and Apple. He learned of the events and incidents that took place before his arrival in the city. He learned about Chico’s undying love for Apple and her sudden disappearance without a trace. He knew Kola was her twin, and that they were warring sisters.

People were willing to tell Two-Face anything out of fear. Whatever information he needed, it was given to him. The streets started to fear and respect Two-Face a little more than they did Chico. Two-Face was the one on the streets putting in work. He had the young killers at his beck and call, while Chico was playing house with a Brooklyn bitch and the streets were seeing less and less of him every week.

The plan to bring Two-Face in for muscle and control had backfired on Chico. A few soldiers were starting to turn against him. Jason had forewarned him about this.

Two-Face had gotten a taste of the action and power in New York City and wanted more of it. With his name ringing bells in the streets, and having plenty of young thugs ready to follow his lead, Two-Face planned on taking over. He had gotten Chico the connect with his uncle’s Mexican cartel, and he was the one spilling blood on the streets, so he thought he should no longer be Chico’s subordinate. He should be the one wearing the crown.

The streets soon started buzzing about the situation between Chico and Two-Face becoming rivals, and people started to take sides.

Two-Face made the first move against Chico, declaring that certain corners were his to control and take over. If you went against him, then you would be dealt with violently. A few soldiers and workers still had loyalty to Chico, so Two-Face decided to make an example of them.

****

Two-Face sat in the Taurus playing around with the Uzi while waiting for those loyal to Chico to enter the 188th Street building. He kept a keen eye on the block as they sat snug and obscured, parked between a dark van and a Ford truck. It was nearing eleven p.m., and foot traffic was light.

After the men sat for an hour waiting, Narco asked, “You sure about this, Two-Face?”

“What you mean, Narco? You tryin’ to back out on me now?” Two-Face asked. “Huh, homes?” He leaned forward, the Uzi almost aimed at Narco in a threatening way.
“You got doubts?”

“Nah, you know I’m down, one hundred and everything, but Chico . . . I known the nigga for years, and he ain’t somebody to play wit’. We fuck this up, and he’ll fuck us up.”

“Fuck Chico! I’m tired of that muthafucka!” Two-Face spat. “He don’t run the show no more.”

Narco decided to remain silent. He knew Two-Face was a psychopath. Narco had killed before, but Two-Face took death and violence to a whole other level. He was the new terror, while Chico was becoming the old.

A short while later, a Dodge Magnum crept down the block and stopped in front of the building they’d been staking out. It doubled-parked, and two men stepped out and walked toward the building carrying book bags. Two-Face knew they were filled with money or coke.

The two men, Donny and Lennox, loyal workers for Chico for years, refused to go along with Two-Face’s command. They weren’t about to be bullied by some young, baby-faced thug, who wasn’t even from Harlem.

Two-Face glared at Donny and Lennox, both men in their late twenties, and deadly figures in the underworld. They strutted toward the building, keeping a watchful eye on the block.

“Let’s do this!” Two-Face said, opening the car door.

Donny and Lennox walked through a darkened area toward the lobby of the six-story building, its entranceway pushed back from the street and towered by walls. When the men were near the door, Donny pressed the call button for the apartment they were going to.

Two-Face and his goons slowly ran up near the front entrance. He peeked around the corner, the Uzi gripped firmly in his hands. Rage held a sawed-off shotgun, and Narco carried an Uzi also. They wanted the hit to be messy.

Two-Face looked at his goons and nodded. Before Donny and Lennox could enter the lobby, the trio charged from around the corner and opened fire. The shotgun exploded, pushing Donny back into the glass, and then the sound of the two Uzis exploded into the night, cutting down both men.

Two-Face ran up to the bloody bodies and snatched the book bags from their lifeless hands. He looked down at the bodies and smiled. He then ran back to the car and sped away. It was a clear “fuck-you” to Chico and his peoples.

****

Chico had had enough of Two-Face. He was back in Harlem with a full force, but his actions were subtle. The one actual advantage Chico had over the ruthless Two-Face was more money and influence in Harlem. Even though Two-Face was feared, many still considered him an outsider, and the enemies began to pile against him. Chico offered fifty thousand dollars for word or information on Two-Face’s whereabouts, knowing some greedy, desperate individual would take the bait, and one week later, he got word of where Two-Face was holed up. He knew he had to be careful coming at the young killer, because he was also cunning and deadly.

Two-Face was snatched from outside the Bronx apartment he was staying in when he walked out the lobby during the late hours of the night to get into the idling Taurus on the street with Narco waiting behind the wheel. Chico’s men had been waiting for Two-Face’s exit, and once he showed his face, they rushed him, throwing a sack over his head, beating him down viciously, and then tossing him into the trunk of a car. Narco had been part of the setup. He wanted the fifty thousand, and he wanted to show his loyalty to Chico.