Hustlin' Divas (10 page)

P
ython and I roll out of Shotgun Row with a dirty dozen Gangster Disciples and with enough artillery to go hard with the muthafuckin' Taliban. Everybody is amped the fuck up, and I'm feeding off the danger and testosterone in Python's ink-black '77 Monte Carlo like a dope fiend. Behind us is the second group in a honey-colored '71 Cutlass with McGriff at the wheel. The murder train is rolling through Memphis, and niggas are going to die tonight.

“Six poppin', five droppin,” Lethal barks.

“FUCK YEAH!”

Everyone wraps their blue scarves around the lower half of their faces and then checks or slaps in their clips, me included. I hope I'm the one to put a bullet in the center of Fat Ace's large skull. A kill like that would clinch the deal on Python giving me his last name. No question about it.

The moment we hit Adams Street, we see the hospital looming large in the distance. It's been only a few minutes, but it feels like it's taking forever. Fantasies of how this shit can go down start to fill my head. I bounce in my seat and feel my nipples get harder than a muthafucka while my clit throbs to the same beat of my racing heart.

“There that muthafucka go right there,” Python hisses, grabbing his TEC-9 and jamming hard on the trigger.

RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!

Those bitch-ass Vice Lords duck and scatter like the muthafuckin' gutter rats they are. Half of them race back through the glass doors of the hospital, and the others dive behind parked cars or vans, but they quickly come up with their heat and start firing back.

POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!

RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!

Two cars of GD assassins unload and start blasting at anything and everything that moves. It straight up sounds like we're in the middle of a war zone. We dump so much heat at the thick glass doors that the muthafuckas explode, and glass falls like rain. Inside, people scream and try to get the hell out of the way. A few aren't successful. Collateral damage.

I feel a few bullets whiz by my head, singeing wisps of my hair, but I never once blink or stop shooting. One big, greasy muthafucka pokes his head around the bumper of a Toyota and lifts his gat, but I pick him off, slamming two bullets into his forehead.

With four Vice Lords spilling their blood on the concrete, Python leads his crew in toward the entrance. He isn't going to pass on this fucking opportunity to put Fat Ace's ass in the earth for nothing in the world. None of us are—even with the sound of police sirens suddenly filling the night air. No surprise, those grimy muthafuckas hightailed it out of the main lobby. Judging by the droplets of blood on the floor, the muthafuckas separated.

“Split up,” Python barks. He and a few of the crew take off in the direction of the emergency room.

I end up running behind Lethal, G-Blast, and Lil Chuckee toward Radiology. I'm so high off the adrenaline that is pumping through my veins it feels like I'm floating. One good shot, I pray. That is all I need and this shit is a wrap.

POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!

RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!

I jump and turn around. The gunfire starts coming from the opposite direction. “Fuck!” I take off running. G-Blast and Lethal run past me, but my long legs don't keep me far behind them. But suddenly shots start ringing out in yet more directions. Are we surrounded?

Before I can react, the side of Lethal's head explodes, and he's literally propelled sideways and smashes up against the wall.

I try to slow up, but I'm running so fast that when Lethal goes sideways, his long legs clip me and cause me to fall face-first. At the last second, I try to break my fall by thrusting my hands out, but the minute they hit the floor, my gun goes flying and pain ricochets up to my wounded shoulder. My arm bends like paper and my face smacks the ground so hard that I'm sure every bone is broken.

Lil Chuckee pivots and once again starts shooting at the muthafucka coming from the elevator bay. “What, muthafucka, you want some of this?”

POP! POP! POP!

G-Blast turns back and also starts unloading bullets.

POP! POP! POP!

Despite the pain, I open my eyes and see a tall muthafucka in a hospital gown blasting at us. With reserved strength and determination, I lift my head and glance around for my 9 mm. It's about a foot away from me. I stretch out my hand even though I know I won't be able to reach it.

Hurry up and crawl, bitch!

POP! POP! POP!

Not wanting to draw too much attention to myself by popping up on my knees, I belly-crawl inch by painful inch until I'm able to grab hold of the gun with just the tips of my fingers.

“Arrrgh! FUCK!” G-Blast curses, his blood squirting and splashing across my outstretched hand a second before he drops dead next to me.

Lil Chuckee hangs in there, keeping our mysterious gunman distracted while I finally manage to get a firm hold on my weapon.

The nigga's bullets pound across Lil Chuckee's chest: His body jerks around before he finally drops to his knees beside me, dead. My blue rag falls from my face as I take aim.

Then my eyes start playing tricks on me when I see Ta'Shara run up behind the mysterious shooter. From across the hospital, our gazes meet, and, shocked, I lower my weapon, but the movement catches the dude's attention and he now takes aim at me.

“NO!” Ta'Shara screams, attacking the dude from the side just as he fires off a shot. The bullet goes wild as they crash to the floor. “LeShelle, don't shoot. Run!”

But I can't. I'm too shocked to process until my sister screams again, “RUN!”

Police sirens blare like surround sound, and I finally push up off the floor, gun in hand, and run to catch up with my set. The emergency room is wrecked, with glass, blood, and bullet holes everywhere. When I run through with my gun up in the air, everyone screams again and tries to duck and dodge out of the way. Right outside, there's more exchange of gunfire and now the sound of tires squealing. I hustle out to get back into the action and just barely make it to Adams Street in time for Python to spot me and allow me to dive in through the open window. For a few heart-pounding seconds, just my upper body makes it inside while my feet kick in the air.

“McGriff took a plug out that muthafucka!” Python shouts as I crawl over other niggas to get all the way into the car.

When I'm in, I glance out the front and see that we're giving chase to a chromed-out black Escalade. “Is he dead?” I ask, wiggling into a spot between Killa Kyle and Tyga.

“If not, he will be soon,” Python declares as we close the distance between the Escalade. “FORKS UP!”

Our crew leans out of the car and starts blasting. The back window of the SUV shatters, and the Vice Lords return fire. But our gun chase is a short one, as an army of blue lights appears in Python's rearview mirror.

“FUCK!” Python jerks the wheel and damn near rolls on its side as we turn onto the next street. Ten minutes later, we've ditched the cops and our cars at Goodson's Autoshop.

While everyone is still amped up and giving each other dabs and shoulder bumps, my thoughts are still tangled up with my baby sister. What the fuck was she doing there? What is her association to that muthafucka who took out three Gangster Disciples? And what will it mean for me when Python finds out?

“W
e're rolling out,” O'Malley says, slamming the phone down on his desk and hopping out of his chair. “The niggers are busy tonight.”

“What?” I frown and look up from our detailed account of tonight's shooting. Any time a police officer discharges their weapon, let alone when they actually hit someone, there are piles of paperwork that serve one purpose only: covering their asses.

“Crazy muthafuckas are shooting up the damn hospital,” he says, rushing toward the door.

“You're shitting me.” I have no choice but to jump up and follow, as do a few more officers when they receive the call.

“Sometimes I think that every major city just took their gang members and flushed them down the toilet, and they all popped out here in Memphis.” He holds up his hands. “Keys!”

I unsnap them from my belt hook and toss them to my partner without breaking stride. “Which hospital?”

“The Med,” he growls angrily. “The same place we just left about an hour ago.” O'Malley shakes his head. “How much you want to bet this shit has something to do with that punk muthafucka we shot tonight?”

I don't answer.

“I knew we should've pressed charges on that arrogant asshole.”

“We didn't have anything on him. Everything pointed to him being an innocent bystander.”

“Fuck that. He was guilty. They all are.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I snap. “Not every black person is in a gang.”

“Sheeeiit.” He sneers. “You can't prove that shit to me. Haven't you been paying attention to what the fuck is going on out here? Kids killing kids over bullshit, and if a few bullets hit someone else, oh well, fuck it.” O'Malley shakes his head. “Congratulations. You people survived nearly two hundred and fifty years of slavery, only to win the freedom to kill your damn selves. Way to go!”

He makes a sharp right, and my head nearly hits the side window. “Don't you start in on that racist bullshit,” I huff. “I'm not in the mood. Gang crimes aren't a race issue; they're a fuckin' economic issue, and you damn well know it!”

“Bullshit.” He takes a sharp left. “These muthafuckas just don't want to learn nothing but how to shoot, steal, and deal. They don't give a fuck about anything or anybody else. They're nothing but domestic terrorists. I wish I could just gather them all up, put them in one building with a ton of guns, and let them go at it. We wouldn't have to kill them—they'd kill themselves. It could be their Alamo.”

“Do me a favor and shut the hell up.” I grind my teeth together. There's no point in arguing with an idiot. It'll only bring me down to his level, but
goddamn
I'm tired of listening to his mouth. We swerve onto Adams Street and speed toward the hospital. As we draw near, the sound of gunfire penetrates through the wail of our sirens. We approach without our blue tracking light, which was shot out in the previous gunfight..

“There those muthafuckas go!” O'Malley jams his foot down on the accelerator. “I swear to God I want to kill every one of these bastards.”

I reach for the radio and report our position to dispatch. Suddenly, a swarm of gangsters spill out of the hospital, shooting their way toward their cars. “They're going to get away.”

“Not if I have anything to fucking do about it,” O'Malley says.

I watch as one group struggles with a large man to a black and chrome SUV, and my heart jumps in recognition. A larger group, flagging blue and gray, race toward two cars and peel after the SUV, slowing only briefly as one last member dives through an open window.

O'Malley stays hot on their tail as the three cars tear away from the Med and then continue their gunfight. “Can you believe these bold, coony muthafuckas?”

I cut a sharp look to my left. “O'Malley.” I grit my teeth. “You let one more muthafuckin' racist slur come out your mouth, and me and you are going to have a serious misunderstanding up in this bitch.”

He smirks, knowing damn well that he's getting under my skin. We close in and then suddenly the black Monte Carlo peels sharply to the left, and the yellow Cutless goes right, leaving the SUV going straight. O'Malley makes a choice and at the last second hangs a left to chase after the black Monte Carlo. The other patrol cars split up as well.

I grab our radio and report our new pursuit position. However, O'Malley's driving skills aren't as sharp as mine. The Monte Carlo is able to shake him as they near the Bethel Grove area.

“What the fuck?!” He whips his head around, trying to judge or guess which street the damn car had ducked down. “Did you see which way they went?”

“Maybe you passed them?” I suggest.

O'Malley makes an illegal U-turn and starts searching the streets again. After what feels like forever, I say, “We lost them. Let's head back to the hospital, see what the damage is.”

O'Malley dismisses my suggestion. “Fuck that shit. I know those gangsta niggers are around here somewhere. I'm not leaving until I find their asses.”

I simmer.

“What's that?” O'Malley asks, slamming on the brakes. Suddenly he's excited again.

“What's what?” I ask, annoyed. I'm just ready for this long-ass night to end.

O'Malley shifts the car in reverse and backs up. “That,” he says, pointing.

I try to follow his gaze. “I don't know. It looks like an auto shop.”

He smiles. “Bingo. How much you want to bet they're in there?”

“How do you know?”

“If I had to ditch a couple of cars, that's exactly how I would do it.” He smirks, turning toward the shop. “I bet they're in there thinking they pulled a fast one on me.”

I roll my eyes; everything's always personal with this asshole. “Even if that was true, do you know how many fuckin' auto shops are on this road alone?” I reason. “What makes you think they're in that one?”

“I can just feel it.” He glances over at me. “I can just smell these banging porch monkeys.”

My eyes narrow as I jab a finger toward him. “When we get back to the station, I'm fuckin' you up.”

“How about you just fuck me and we call it a night?” He winks, laughing.

“Not even if you were the
last
thing that resembled a man.”

He chuckles and stops the car. “It's a damn shame. A woman as fine as you going without.”

“Trust me. I'm getting more dick than I can handle,” I sass back as we make our final creep toward the Goodson's Autoshop. I grab the radio and report our position and then request backup.

O'Malley reaches for the door and opens it.

“Don't you think we should wait?” I ask.

“I'm just going to take a peek.” He gets out and shuts the door.

I roll my eyes. This hardheaded muthafucka is going to fuck around and get me killed one of these days. I climb out of the car behind him with my hand on my weapon, but I just barely clear the right side of the car when bullets start flying.

POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!

RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!

The windows on the patrol car shatter and bullets slam into the car. A few blaze a little too close to my head as I dive for cover.

Then I can hear shoes shuffling everywhere.

“GO! GO! GO!” someone says.

“POLICE. STOP OR I'LL SHOOT!” O'Malley shouts.

POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!

RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!

When bullets stop slamming into the car, I start to pull myself up, but before I can get to my feet, someone jumps into the patrol car. I half expect to see O'Malley, but instead it's some kid who looks more like a girl than a boy. I aim my weapon, but before I can demand that the kid get out of the car, the punk fires at me. I dive back out of the way again.

My attacker shifts the car in reverse and speeds backward. “What the fuck?” I can't believe the muthafucka just stole our police car. “These some bold muthafuckas.”

I turn around to see O'Malley racing down the alley at full speed behind two large men. “Shit.” I take off after him. Once again my long legs eat the distance up in no time.

POP! POP! POP!

I turn the corner to see one man down and one man cornered at a dead end with his hands in the air, O'Malley's weapon trained on him.

“Well, looky what we got here,” O'Malley taunts. “My main man Python.” He chuckles. “I'd know that ugly face anywhere. How you doing, Python? Or should I say Terrell?”

I lock eyes with the overseer of the Black Gangster Disciples and then glance over at my partner. I know damn well that O'Malley has no intention of making an arrest—at least not before having his own sort of fun with him. I look over at the other body just a few feet behind my partner.

“So what do you got to say now, big man on the block?” O'Malley asks. “Any last words?”

Python's demonic laughs fill the back alley.

“What? You find this funny, muthafucka?” O'Malley challenges. “You don't look so fuckin' big and bad to me.”

I roll my eyes and walk around my partner to check the other body. He's definitely dead, his hand still clutching his 45 mm.

“On your knees,” O'Malley barks.

I glance up to the drama that's unfolding between Python and O'Malley. My gaze once again locks with the smirking gangsta. He is clearly enjoying egging my partner on.

O'Malley growls, “I
said
on your knees.”

I move away from the dead body to stand behind my partner. The sound of police sirens alerts us that our backup is on the way.

“Oh, you're a stubborn muthafucka, huh?” O'Malley says. “It seems to me that I have myself a hell of an opportunity here. Don't you think?”

Python doesn't answer.

“I can just take you out right here. Huh? Then again, you niggers multiply like cockroaches. You kill one, there's another one to take its place. But you know…” The corner of O'Malley's lips kicks up. “In your case, I just might be willing to take my chances,
nigger!
”

I've had enough of his bullshit. I smile and quietly lift the dead man's 45 toward the back of my partner's head and pull the trigger.

The back of O'Malley's bald head explodes like a melon as his body pitches forward and then collapses in a heap on the concrete.

“I done told you about that nigger shit,” I say.

“Took you long enough,” Python says, moving away from the wall and looking down at O'Malley's dead body. “I didn't think he would shut up.”

I laugh. “I don't think that's going to be a problem anymore.”

Python smiles as he strolls over to me and lifts my chin. “Either way, I appreciate you coming through for your man.” He leans down and kisses me.