Death List (16 page)

AS THE POLICE LEFT Kenyatta's club on the north side of Detroit and headed towards the farm in the country, some of the people on the farm were making hurried efforts to leave. As soon as the club had been raided, Kenyatta had been called and duly informed. The few members inside the club hadn't stood up too long before giving out the information on Kenyatta's whereabouts, but that was something Kenyatta had expected.

Kenyatta was well armed when he left the farm, taking four men with him. Each of the men took his woman along in one of the two cars-Jug and his girlfriend, Almeta; Eddie-Bee with his lady, and Red and Arlene, the woman who had gotten rid of the guns for them after the holdup.

Kenyatta and Betty, with over thirty thousand dollars in a black briefcase between them, rode with Zeke and his black queen. Each couple was armed to the teeth, men and women alike, as they pulled out of the farmyard.

The rest of the people watched them go, not knowing when their leader would return. Ali stood at the front door scratching his chin. He had been left in charge, and that was all that mattered to him, but he could feel something wrong. He couldn't know that his rule would last only a few hours.

Ali didn't have the knowledge that Kenyatta possessed. He was uninformed about the raid on the city clubhouse, and he didn't know that an army of police were on their way to the farm at that very moment.

When Kenyatta and his group reached the airport, they parked the cars in a no-standing zone, abandoning them. None of them had any thoughts of returning that way. It was time to get out. It was a wellthought-out plan of escape. Now was the time to put it to use.

Everybody followed Kenyatta into the airport. As he bypassed the ticket windows, he turned and joked with his followers. "Now that sure in the hell would be a waste of money, wouldn't it?" he said as he shifted the heavy black bag around in his left hand.

All of the women carried big, heavy shoulderbags. Each couple carried a certain amount of cash on them, in case they ran into more trouble than they could han dle and had to split up, but none of them had as much as Kenyatta carried.

They waited about ten minutes until people started boarding a nonstop flight to California, then Kenyatta led his small group toward the loading ramp. The airport was set up in such a way that they didn't check for weapons until a person was going onto the ramp that led into the plane. Here a few guards stood around looking bored, watching the metal detector to see if anyone was possibly carrying a weapon.

When Kenyatta's group reached them, there was no suspicion because the group was well-dressed and smiling. They came up to the ramp as if they had tickets, then all at once hell broke loose. Kenyatta pulled out an automatic. He waved it at the guards as his people came rushing up beside him. With a wave of his hand, he sent Red rushing up the ramp.

The sight of the black men trying to commandeer the plane sent the guards into action. As Red came rushing up, one tried to reach out and stop him with his arms, while another took a step back and pulled out his gun. Neither man found success. The first one took a bullet from Red's gun right in the face. Blood flew everywhere as the white guard crumpled to the floor. There was a red gash where his face had been.

As the second guard came out with his gun, Red's woman, who was just a step behind him, shot from the hip and took the guard by surprise. Her first shot hit him high in the chest, spinning him around. The second shot took the back of his head off. The couple ran past, not bothering to see the object of their handiwork fall to the floor.

"Everybody stay still," Kenyatta ordered loudly, "and won't nobody get hurt." As he spoke, a guard on Kenyatta's blind side made his move. As soon as the man reached for his weapon, Betty stepped around her man and raised the sawed-off shotgun she carried in her bag. The gun was cut off so that it was almost as short as a pistol. She gave the man both barrels. The sight of what the shotgun did froze the other men in fear. There was no doubt in their minds now that the blacks meant business.

Kenyatta backed up the ramp, using the girl who had been at the checkpoint as his shield. He stopped and waved Betty and the rest of his crowd past. They rushed up the ramp towards Red, who had the steward shaking from fear under the sight of his gun.

Kenyatta's measured words roared out over the airport. "You honkies had better pay heed, or we'll kill everything white on the plane." A dark flush stained his lean and sallow cheeks as rage glittered in his cold black eyes.

The sight of the terrified white girl in the tall black man's arms made the guards hesitate. There was no doubt that he would kill her. The guards held their weapons in check and allowed Kenyatta to make his way on up the ramp.

Eddie-Bee stood at the top of the ramp waiting for him, while he pointed two thirty-eight short-nosed police specials at the white men at the bottom of the ramp.

"That's right!" Kenyatta roared as he backed into the plane, followed by Eddie-Bee. "If you don't want any dead passengers or stewards, keep your hands off them motherfuckin' guns." His voice carried all the way through the plane, causing a near panic among the passengers.

The members of his gang had already taken complete command of the plane. The pilot of the plane was well aware of the fact that his plane had been commandeered by a bunch of black gunmen. He reached the tower by radio and asked for information on what to do.

"Follow their orders. Don't endanger any of the passengers!" the voice from the tower replied. "The people who have taken control of your plane are murderers. They have just killed at least four people in the terminal, so be careful."

The co-pilot glanced over at the captain; their eyes locked for a quiet moment, but that was broken by the entry of Zeke. The tall black man stood in the cockpit with a cocked gun in his hand. He aimed it at the back of the co-pilot's head. "There won't be any trouble if you don't give us any," the black man stated harshly.

From the way the man spoke, the pilot knew he meant business. "Where to?" the pilot asked softly.

"When we get off the ground, I'll let you know," Zeke replied, then smiled. It had gone easier than Kenyatta had said it would. "Wherever we go," he said offhandedly, "you can bet it will be a black country. Yes indeed," Zeke said, speaking more to himself than the white pilots. "It's goin' sure nuff be black!"

This excerpt from Cry Revenge will introduce you to Curtis Carson, a young man who doesn't really mean to rip off the Chicanos in his backyard crap games; he just rolls the dice better. But the Chicanos don't see it that way, and when one of their brothers is brutally slaughtered in a barroom shootout because of Curtis' dealings with heroin pusher Fat George, the Mexicans cry revenge on Curtis, leaving his brother with a wrecked body that will forever prevent him from being the basketball star he had always dreamed of being. Curtis swears vengeance, and the streets run red with Black-Chicano warfare!

IN THE BACKYARD of the white frame house was sand. Brown, light sand that blew in from the distant desert. New Mexico was more desert than anything else, yet it still possessed a beauty that would be hard to find elsewhere.

Curtis Carson stood up and put his hands on his hips as he shook out the kinks in his back. He stared down at the dice that his friend Dan Lewis shook.

"Seven!" Dan yelled as he rolled the dice out. When eight showed, he snatched them back up quickly. "Seven," he yelled again, this time taking his time and trying to roll the dice gently on the sand. Again the dice came up with eight.

"These mothafuckers ain't got nothin' on them but eights," Dan cursed loudly. Then he shook the dice slowly, holding them back near his ear. He grinned up at Curtis, who picked up the money he had made after jumping eight. "Now," Dan yelled, "I want to see some fuckin' sevens on these mothahuppas."

The two Mexican men kneeling in the dirt watched Dan closely as he shook the dice. The stouter of the two tossed his money down beside Dan's. "Okay, momma," he said, drawing the words out, "you're faded."

Dan stared down at the ten-dollar bill lying in the dirt. He grinned up at the men, revealing good teeth that needed some cleaning. "Now that's the way I like to get my money on, with no problems." He took his time, then quickly released the dice. The dice hit the dirt and began to spin around like small tops.

Before the dice could stop spinning, the Mexican who had faded the money reached over and snatched the dice up from the dirt. "Goddamn, Dannie, how many times we got to go over it! Ain't goin' be no spinning the dice in the sand!"

"The sonofabitch," the other Mexican said, loud enough for all the men in the game to hear. "The gringo bastard must think we are the fools, huh?"

"Hey, amigo," Curtis said smoothly, "sometimes people forget, you know. Ain't nobody been hurt, the dice were caught, so let's not get nasty about it, okay?" His voice had remained low, but there was no doubt about the authority in it. The tall black was used to giving orders.

The slim Mexican who had spoken glanced up from his kneeling position. "Hey, my man, how many times do we have to pull this dude's coat about tryin' to shoot that shot on us, huh?"

Curtis shrugged his wide shoulders. "These things happen, Pedro, you're hip to it. The guy is used to firin' the craps that way, so all at once we want him to change his style of shootin' 'cause you guys say he's gettin' slick. So the guy tries and changes his style of shootin', but at times he forgets, you know, and goes back to firin' the craps the way he's used to shootin' them. That's all it is."

Pedro glared up at Curtis, but prudence warned him not to push it. He glanced around and caught his partner's eyes, then glanced down at the money in the pot. His actions were obvious to everybody in the game.

Before the other Mexican could pick his money up out of the dirt, Dan picked up the dice and rolled them out. "Seven, baby," he yelled, as the craps slowly rolled across the dirt.

Before the heavyset Mexican could follow his partner's directions, the dice had rolled out and stopped on a seven. Pedro let out a curse and glared angrily at the dice shooter.

"Seven, and we have a winner," Curtis yelled out, making it clear to the angry Mexicans that it had been a fair roll.

Pedro coughed and cleared his throat. "Yeah, Dannie boy, you really think you're cute, don't you, my man?" His jet-black eyes were flashing dangerously as he tried to control his temper.

Dan, a tall, slim, brown-skinned man in his early twenties, smiled coldly. Though his lips were pulled back in a smile, his dark eyes were bleak and deadly as he watched the Mexican out of the corner of them.

"Hey, Pedro," he called out softly, "what's the deal, man? You say I'm tryin' to be cute. I can't dig that, brother. I'm just tryin' to win some cash money, that's all, my man."

Before Pedro could say anything, his partner punched him in the side with his elbow. "It's okay, dude, you caught me with my pants down on that roll."

Dan smiled at the heavyset Mexican. "That's the way I like to hear people rap, Jay. You win some, you lose some."

Jay Novello, the husky Mexican, ignored Dan as he got up from the crap game. "I think we had better be movin' on, amigo," Jay stated as he reached out and touched the quick-tempered Pedro's arm. "It's nothing, amigo, but a few dollars."

"Hey, brother, wait a minute now. I don't want you to leave with no kind of attitude now, 'cause ain't nobody did nothin' to you," Curtis stated sharply, then added, "'cause if you think you been cheated, run it down to me. I don't run no kind of crooked game, not in my momma's backyard, no way."

Curtis stepped in front of the two men. "Now, if you got some kind of complaint, let's get it off your chest and we can clear up the air right now!"

"We ain't got no complaints, Curtis," Jay stated, "but we done warned this dude six or seven times about shootin' that turn-down shot on us, and he still takes us for tricks."

"Hey, Jay," Curtis replied quietly, "we both saw the shot he used when he rolled seven just now and it wasn't no turn-down shot he used. Before, yes, but you caught the dice, Jay, so now what the fuck is the problem?"

Before Jay could answer, Curtis went on. "Now, if you're hot over losin' your money, I ain't about to replace it, so you're shit out of luck. If you couldn't stand to lose, you shouldn't have started to gamble!"

His words beat at the two men, each one feeling the weight of them as he spoke. Pedro glanced upward at the sky. Jay, on the other hand, glanced down at his shoes, then moved nervously from one foot to the other. He slowly raised his eyes and stared at Curtis.

"Hey, amigo, we ain't fools, you dig? Now, I been beat out of a few dollars," Jay began, speaking with slow deliberation and looking directly into Curtis' eyes. "But the money ain't about nothin', Curtis. What hurts, amigo, is that we thought we were more cooler with you than that."

Jay raised his hand, cutting off whatever Curtis was about to say. "I know without it being said that we been hustled, Curtis, but that ain't about shit. What I'm tryin' to say is, I thought we were tighter than that, but it's okay, my man. Them things happen. Maybe you needed the few dollars that your main man won; who knows, I don't, and I don't give a fuck!"