Sex in the Hood Saga (55 page)

The Queen had to get a grip on herself. Her mind was a movie strip of scenes worse than any horror movie. And they were all of Knight laying somewhere in this building, dead at the hands of his brother. The next scene was The Queen finding him, throwing herself on his giant body that was her sanctuary from the wicked world, then figuring out how she could join her soul mate in the blissful infinity of heaven.

The Queen wanted to run and find her Knight.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jamal announced as Studs pushed ten, thick, futon mattresses onto the stage, “it's time for one of the most popular events of The Games—The Longest Female Fucking on Top.”

The crowd exploded as ten nude couples walked hand in hand and stopped in front of the mattresses.

Jamal introduced their names and teams. “And lastly we have the superstar champs from every year I can remember, Pebbles and Bam-Bam!”

The audience roared.

The Queen shot up to her feet. She didn't care about the games going on. All she cared about was getting to Knight.

“Where you goin'?” CoCo asked with an alarmed expression. She gripped The Queen's wrist and said, “I know you ain't gon' miss the fuck fest that's about to go down.”

“I gotta find Knight.”

She just had to figure out how to get past the human wall of muscle formed by Ping and Pong, who shook their heads, cast somber glares down at her, and pointed for her to put her ass back in her seat.

Trina Michaels' pussy was burning with need, and her brain was even more excited. “Can you believe the perversion of this place? The world media is gonna eat this up!”

“You wish that were you up there,” her cameraman shot back. “Maybe you wouldn't be such a bitch if you got your pussy pumped on a regular basis.”

“That comment constitutes sexual harassment, according to the GNN company handbook. I'm going to report you when we get back to D.C.”

The cameraman adjusted dials on the panel of video editing equipment. “Go for it. Because the NAACP, the GNN diversity committee and the black journalists' association are all about to hear about the real Trina Michaels.”

She raised her chin, loving the video feeding in live from the eight cameras hidden on Rip Masta and his homies.

The equipment here in the truck was digitally recording the video of the wild sex taking place in this illegal endeavor.

Later, Trina and her cameraman would send the incriminating video by satellite back to the station in Washington.

And her jealous cameraman could do nothing to stop her. Trina raised her chin. “As if the NAACP would support this type of animalistic hedonism. Half those jokers are smoking marijuana, and they're all taking part in an illegal sex ring. Civil rights leaders will praise me for putting an enterprise like this out of business.”

The cameraman ignored her as he adjusted the sound on camera three.

Trina loved the idea that she'd have video of the event, thanks to Rip Masta, as well as video taken by the Federal agents when they raided the building. And that was supposed to take place within the hour.

Of course Rip Masta had no idea that hundreds of Federal agents were waiting in nearby vans, helicopters, and boats to interrupt his videotaping tasks. No, he was just a pawn in a game too big for his little mind to get burdened with.

Despite her objections, Trina had surrendered to Rick's demand that his agents also get live video from Rip Masta's hidden cameras.

Trina wanted exclusive access to that video so that Rick couldn't backstab her and give her hard earned scoop to another reporter at another network. But Rick refused and left her with no other choice but to go along with his demands.

Her mouth dropped open as she watched a woman fucking on top of the man. The power of her body and the position of female domination made Trina squeeze her thighs over her soaking wet panties. This was messy work, but she loved it.

Yeah, she and Rick would have a good time reviewing this video together. Because it just kept getting hotter and hotter.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Trina exclaimed. “Why are the screens going black?”

Duke helped Rip Masta pull off the hidden cameras and wires, while Dickman assisted the rest of the crew in doing the same. It just so happened that Rip Masta, invited to the wedding and The Games by Knight, had called Duke earlier that afternoon to find out if his boy was back in action.

Another sign from the Babylon gods that it was time for The Duke to ascend back to the throne; because Duke's offer to make Rip rich in the Babylon underground had sounded much more appealing to his boy than trusting that fed muthafucka who had promised immunity in exchange for hidden video of the hottest action around.

“Fuck them liars,” Rip said, tossing the lipstick sized camera onto the floor. He stomped on it.

“Work wit' me, man,” Duke said. “Disappear off they radar in a Motor City minute.”

“Dig that,” Rip said, staring at the silver circular handle on the locked vault. “Now, how we gon' get the loot? The Games end in two hours an' they gon' be comin' down here to pay the winners. All cash. Plus I gotta book, 'cause soon as that Rick prick see I directed his home movie to fade to black, he gon' be up in here lookin' fo' me.”

Duke playfully raised a fist over Rip's face. “Man, I oughta fuck you up for bringin' heat”

Dickman grabbed Duke's wrist. “Dude, the vault.”

Rip nodded to a slim, beige-skinned brotha. “My boy Jimmy, he a locksmith worst nightmare.”

Duke led Jimmy to the safe. “Jam on it, my brotha.”

Knight stood in the center of the surveillance room, scanning each monitor for Li'l Tut. Paul and the rest of the security team had just explained how and where they had seen him.

“Keep zooming in on the crowds,” Knight said as B'Amazons studied live feeds from all over the inside and outside of the building. In the auditorium, one camera stayed on The Queen; Knight glanced back at her on that monitor frequently as he scanned the other screens.

“Here go one of the vans,” Paul said, zooming an outdoor camera to focus on a black van a block away. He pointed to several other monitors that showed a convoy of vans and a helicopter lurking in the darkness in the warehouse district around The Playhouse. “They got some boats out on the water too.”

Icy feelings of worry shot outward along Knight's spine.

“When they move,” Knight said, staring hard into Paul's eyes, “you know it's time for Inferno.” Knight had never used the mechanism that would ignite the water in the moat around The Playhouse into a wall office.

Modeled after Medieval defense tactics for castles; it worked by emptying huge vats of flammable chemicals into the water, which would then be set on fire. The moat was far enough away from the building that no one would get hurt, but no one could get past it either.

Meanwhile, anyone inside the building could leave via the underground tunnels that led to various buildings in a one mile radius.

“It's done, Boss Knight,” Paul said. “Soon as you give me the sign.”

Knight checked out a monitor that showed the rooftop terrace where people lingered at the reception dinner tables. A band played, allowing folks to slow-dance and sip champagne. At the edges of the roof, sniper-trained Barriors and B'Amazons in black perched with rifles, ready to defend this urban fortress.

Knight had assigned only folks who were veterans of the Persian Gulf War and the Iraq War, and even several older brothas who'd served in Vietnam, for that detail. They weren't scared; their minds were right to execute The Prince Code,
Kill or be killed.

That's how Knight viewed Li'l Tut. No matter what went down tonight, even if Babylon burned to the ground and had to rise like a triumphant phoenix from the ashes, Li'l Tut would not be part of it.

Knight searched monitors that showed the second floor, where hundreds of people splashed and sexed it up in and around the tropical-style swimming pool and hot tubs. Giant closed-circuit TV screens played The Games at each end of the turquoise playpen.

Gerard sat at the edge of the pool, twisted up under three strippers. One of them was in the water, sucking his dick, while the others gyrated around him.

“Yeah, Boss,” Paul said, “Gerard lost his mind. Abandoned his post and joined the party.”

Knight visually scoured the heavily guarded marina where yacht number one and two hummed in their slips, while Barriors loaded the cigarette boat and yacht number two with all the cash, except for the prize money and bet money for The Games. Together, that amounted to fifteen million.

Knight had left it, because he was not going to jack up Jamal's reputation by absconding with the cash owed to the contestants and participants. The winning contestants would get paid, as would the folks who'd bet on them.

Nope, Knight had taken only the admissions money, which totaled twenty-five million. And that money, on yacht number two, was pulling out of the marina right now. His laptop, where he and Jamal would make the transfer, was on yacht number one. That was also where The Queen would think it was all over.

Both yachts were captained by crews from Florida; they had no idea what was about to go down. Knight had paid Larry Marx a ridiculous fee to secure these crews, experienced in the pirate like world of smuggling everything between the United States and South American countries. They had all the appropriate licenses and paperwork on board to bum through any red tape bullshit that the Coast Guard, Detroit Police marine patrols, or anybody else tried to flex.

Knight watched the Barriors work. They too would be lavishly rewarded for transporting it to a private dock owned by Larry Marx's friend down river. There, the cigarette boat would deliver Knight and The Queen, and they would board yacht number two and sail away forever.

Knight's heart pounded as he thought about Jamal. In just a short while, they would do the deal to exchange ownership of Babylon. That additional twenty-five million would make Knight attain his target jackpot of fifty million. And that would set him and The Queen up to live like royalty with Baby Prince for the rest of their lives.
If we make it out of here.

He coughed as stress suddenly clenched his chest.

On the lobby level, the Knight look-alike Stud who had competed in the Best Dick event stood with a Latina chick with long black hair and a wedding gown. The decoy couple would walk out through the front doors and get into Hummer One, decorated with a Just Married sign. That vehicle would go to the airport as if Knight and The Queen were en route to their honeymoon.

But Knight still had to find Li'l Tut.

Monitors showed the suites on the fifth floor, where all kinds of people were watching The Games on closed circuit TV and holding their own erotic Olympics on beds, chairs, and floors.

Knight looked to the next screens showing the vault. “There he is,” Knight said calmly. He tossed back his head and burst out laughing. Because the vault was empty.

The prize and bet money was being protected by a heavily armed battalion of soldiers in a room under the stage dressing rooms. This would be a piece of cake. All Knight had to do was go to the vault room and squash Li'l Tut like a bug.

It ain't gonna be that easy,
intuition said.

Beat was rock-hard inside Jamal's jeans as he watched the Best Dick Suckin' contest on stage. He couldn't wait to get with CoCo, who looked just as horny as he was up there in the balcony with The Queen.

Despite the sexual excitement of this night, Jamal was still scared shitless about doing this deal with Knight.

This was hype and everything, but Jamal just didn't know if he wanted to own it. The more he thought about Dickman's offer to go with him and Duke and let Duke be the boss of this illegitimate empire, the more he liked the idea.

Knight was always talking about The Prince Code, keeping his hands clean.

But the image of Knight glaring down at him in the aisle when he'd expressed doubts flashed in his mind.

Then again, how would Knight even know if Jamal let Duke take over? He'd be all the way on an island somewhere, bangin' with The Queen, not worrying about what's going on back at Babylon. All that righteous talk about feeding the kids in Africa and protecting the hood. Shit! Jamal could make sure that still happened. Duke had a heart too. Plus, by dealing with Duke, Jamal would still be showing loyalty and appreciation to the Johnson family for bank rolling his music business. Even though Duke originally hadn't wanted to spring with the cash to make it happen.