The Demise (8 page)

Murder motioned for the bartender. “Scotch … neat. And whatever she's drinking,” he said.

She smiled. “So do you have a name?” she asked.

“You're drunk,” Murder observed. “You're standing there with your ass hanging out the bottom of your shorts, your titties on display, your shirt half-ripped, and cheap six-inch heels on. I'm a hood nigga with a big dick and loaded pockets.” He paused as the bartender delivered both drinks. “Does my name really matter, or you ready to get out of here?”

He was crass, direct, a bit rude, but she loved it. The girl took her drink and tossed it back before replying, “You've got a room?”

Murder left a fifty-dollar bill on the bar and walked out. He didn't look back because he knew the college girl would be right behind him.

She smirked, feeling herself, as she took a deep breath. She looked back at her friends, who were preoccupied on the dance floor. She thought about telling them she was leaving … thought about telling them who she was leaving with, but instead she hustled out of the bar.
I'll catch up with them later.

She walked out of the door and looked left, then right, as her heart raced in anxiety.

“You ready?” Murder asked, startling her as he leaned against the side of the building, hidden in the shadows as he blew smoke from a cigarette. She turned around, smiling, as she walked up on him. He pulled her in, gripping her firm behind as he pressed his manhood against her. The thought of the night to come had him ready.

“Feels like you're more ready than I am,” she flirted. He flicked the cigarette and then grabbed her hand. “Let's get out of here.”

He led her to his car, which was parked down the block, in a darkened alley, and then opened the door for her.

She eased into the car and then he ran around the front to enter from his side.

As soon as he sat down she grabbed him, caressing the print that had formed in his pants. He sat back as he pulled out into traffic and then with one hand on the wheel and one hand behind her neck he guided her mouth down onto him. “Show me what you got, lil' mama. Who knows—if you do it good enough, I just may have a reason to keep you around,” he said.

*   *   *

Miamor had stopped fighting. She had stopped banging … stopped screaming. There was no point. No one was coming to her rescue. She wasn't getting out of the closet until Murder felt like letting her out, so she sat, stoically recounting all the ways she had caused her current circumstance. It had been her hot head, her inability to rationalize her anger without the help of her gun, and her quick trigger, that had brought her here. She knew Carter hated her. Hell, she hated herself. He was the only person who could heal her heart and he wanted nothing to do with her, so instead she accepted Murder as a consolation prize. She didn't love him, but he loved her and because of that, she would be protected.

She heard the door to the suite open and she waited until the closet door was pulled open. She was curled up against the wall, knees to her chest, as she looked up at him.

“Get up,” Murder said.

Miamor reluctantly climbed to her feet and ambled out of the tiny space. Murder tossed some clothes at her roughly. “Put these on. I've got something to make you feel better,” he stated. There was no compassion in his tone, only annoyance. He was determined to snap her out of this depression. There was nothing attractive about her current state and the longer she dwelled in it, the more he could feel himself pulling away.

Miamor sneered at him as she stepped into the jeans and shrugged on the jacket. Her hair was a mess, her eyes swollen and red, but she didn't care.

He shook his head as he grabbed her elbow and led her out of the room.

“Where are we going?” she whispered. “I can't be seen anywhere around town. You're going to get me killed.”

“Shut up and walk,” he said.

He escorted her to the trunk of his car. “I've got something for you,” he said as he stood behind her. He kissed the nape of her neck and handed her the key. “Open it.”

She rolled her eyes, but snatched the key and inserted it. She turned it and lifted the trunk.

When Miamor saw the young girl, gagged and bound in the trunk, her heart dropped. The terror shined in the girl's eyes. Miamor quickly closed the trunk and turned to Murder. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Miamor asked.

“What's wrong with you?” Murder shot back. “This is who you are, Mia. This is what we do,” he spoke through gritted teeth, his frustration rearing its ugly head.

“This girl can't be older than twenty-one, Murder. You don't know her. She hasn't done anything wrong to you. She hasn't crossed you,” Miamor reasoned. “She's innocent. This isn't my game.”

“What are you talking about, ma? You've gone soft! You know the rules. Anybody—”

“Can get it,” Miamor said, finishing his sentence. “I know the rules, Murder. I remember. I just can't be a part of it anymore. This shit right here,” she stated, motioning to the trunk. “This type of shit is the reason why my karma is so bad. This is the reason why I lost my son.”

Murder stood toe-to-toe with her as he pointed his finger in her face. “No, that bitch nigga Carter is the reason you lost your son. He was too pussy to protect his family. You chose him. You chose wrong,” Murder said. “Now you want lil' mama in the car to die your way or my way? Either way, she gotta get it. She's seen my face.”

Miamor wanted to leave the girl hanging. She wanted to tell Murder to kiss her ass and to do what he had to do, but she couldn't. She knew the type of death he would deliver. He had a thing for inflicting pain. If he killed this girl, it would be slow, torturous. Murder had an itch to scratch. He wanted to wring Miamor's neck, and she knew it. He wished he had the balls to body her … to punish her for choosing Carter over him. He had years of resentment built up toward her, but they both knew he wouldn't act on it. He couldn't hurt Miamor even on her worst day.
He wants to kill me. Instead, he's going to take it out on her,
she thought grimly. There was a time that she wouldn't have cared. She was once a girl who didn't care who was on the other end of the barrel of her gun, but now it mattered. After all of this strife she had learned the ultimate lesson: Life has value. She had grown.

“Murder, please,” she whispered. “Just let her go.”

“I'm not letting her go. The way she dies is up to you. By your hands or mine,” he threatened. He thought he was giving her what she needed. He was trying to fulfill her bloodlust, but that craving—the craving to murder someone when she was upset—had passed.… It had died with C.J. Still, Murder had forced her hand. He knew the beast that had retreated inside of her and he was determined to unlock it.

“You're the devil,” she stated in disgust.

“In the flesh, baby,” he replied. He kissed her, forcing his tongue into her mouth as she pushed against him.

“Get off of me!” she shouted, infuriated at his arrogance. He chuckled, finding humor in her discomfort. He slid his hand into his waistline and came out with a 9mm pistol. He screwed a silencer on the end. Her eyes burned holes through him as she stared in contempt.

“You might not want to put a gun in my hand right now. I just might shoot you with it,” she said snidely.

He handed it to her. “We both know that's a lie, lil' mama,” he said. “I'm all you've got.” It was a sad truth that kept her linked to him.

Miamor popped the trunk and looked at the girl. For the first time ever, Miamor was afraid to pull the trigger. Her soul was on the line. Tears accumulated in her eyes. Her emotions were unstable. Murdering this innocent girl was the furthest thing from her mind.

“Do it,” Murder stated. He knew Miamor was like a pit bull. Once she was back in the swing of things, she would go all out. He would have his old Murder Mama back. “You do it or I can.”

She pointed the gun into the trunk as the girl began to plead. The duct tape muffled her, but Miamor knew exactly what she was saying. She had heard it time and time again.

Please, don't kill me. Please. Just let me go,
Miamor spoke the words in her mind. She had played executioner so many times that she knew this script verbatim. All of her victims had always used the same lines. Their last words were always the same. Even the hardest man had turned to putty when staring into the black hole of her gun. This was the only time she felt differently, though.

Her aim was steady, but her heart wavered, quivered, shook with uncertainty. “I'm not doing this,” she whispered. She turned to Murder. “I've had enough bloodshed. Enough is enough, Murder. You want to know why I always choose Carter over you? Why I am so pulled in by him? Because he's a good man. He has blood on his hands, but he has never hurt anybody who didn't hurt him first. He isn't a monster.”

Murder took the gun from her hands and, without even moving his eyes from Miamor's, he fired into the trunk. The gun whispered five shots as he continuously pulled the trigger, ending the girl's life without remorse.

Miamor didn't flinch. Death didn't scare her or move her. At this point, it disgusted her. Murder disgusted her, but his callousness is also what would protect her. He would body anyone who threatened her existence. “I'm going back up to the room,” she said.

As she walked away he shouted over to her, “We're the same, Miamor! I know you! I see you! You the one hiding from yourself!”

If she weren't so afraid of Baraka and his goons, she would leave Murder, but the Arabs put a fear in her that she had never known existed. So as long as she had to put up with Murder, she would—at least until she could figure out a plan B.

 

C
HAPTER
5

It felt good to be back home. Miami had treated him well, but there was nothing like having his own kingdom. Flint was where he was bred, and as Zyir cruised the city blocks, he realized he never wanted to leave. He felt the buzz of his cell phone and when he looked at the screen, Breeze's name appeared. He sighed and sent her to voice mail. He had to stay focused. He was about to sell ten bricks to a first-time customer and he needed to be aware. Distractions were deadly in this game, and Breeze's unhappiness was the biggest one. She wasn't adjusting well to her new surroundings. After Leena's murder, she was paranoid all the time and she wanted him at her side 24/7. He loved her, but he wasn't in the babysitting business. He had to move around. He had jumped onto Flint's drug scene full force, and it was important that he make his presence known. Hustling in Miami and hustling at home were two different feelings. In Flint, he was king. He tried to stay busy to keep himself from dwelling on the fact that The Cartel had fallen apart. They'd all dispersed. Carter was tucked away in the mountains in Colorado, and Monroe had gone back to Miami. Zyir was holding things down in Flint, but there was no one around he could trust.

He pulled up to a neighborhood park. It was deserted. Nightfall and the freezing winter hawk ensured that not a soul was in sight. Zyir peered out his window and checked his rearview as he slid his burner in his waist. He shined his headlights and spotted a black Camaro. His buyer stepped out of the car. Stepping out into the night, he pulled the collar to his Moncler jacket up and tried to duck his head low to escape the biting wind. It was so cold that white clouds floated from his mouth with every breath he took. Adrenaline coursed through him—not from fear, but from caution. Each time he made a drop, he knew what was at stake. This wasn't Miami. He was back in the murder capital, and in Flint, Michigan, good niggas died young every day.

“What up, man, you got your paper together?” Zyir asked.

“Yeah, how many you got?” the dude replied as he tucked his hands in his pockets.

“I got the ten you asked for. Fuck you mean? Where the bread?” Zyir responded, all business as he looked left, then right, before focusing his gaze back onto the man before him.

“I'm saying … I might want more if the quality on point. We can go to your spot real quick. I'm trying to spend, heavy. You got a nigga out here freezing his balls off. I can give you the money for the ten and then we can ride to get the other ones and do business right there. I want thirty now,” the guy said.

“Go to my spot?” Zyir scoffed. Zyir had been around the block a time or two. This dude had no intention of buying anything. He was trying to find out where his stash was. Zyir had a low tolerance for games. He smelled a setup. “You want thirty?” Zyir asked. He stepped closer to the man casually until … suddenly … shit wasn't so casual. “Nigga, do I look like a fucking clown-ass nigga out here?” Zyir asked as he grabbed the man by his neck and drew his pistol in one swift motion.

The dude's hand shot up in defense, and Zyir instantly curled his trigger finger.

BOOM!

He blew a nickel-sized hole through his palm. “Agh!” the man hollered as he instantly gripped his hand in pain.

“Don't fucking play with me. You quarter-ounce buying ass, nigga. Now all of a sudden you tryna cop weight? You never seen thirty your whole life,” Zyir chastised as he hit the man brutally with the butt of his gun, splitting his nose wide open.

“Nah, big homie, it ain't like that,” the man pleaded, but Zyir followed up with another vicious blow. This hit sent him to the ground.

“Don't ‘big homie' me. You older than me, nigga,” Zyir shot with a smirk. He leaned over and grabbed the man by his collar and placed the gun at point-blank range against his forehead. “Who else is in on it?” Zyir knew that the dude couldn't have had the balls to rob him on his own. There had to be another snake lurking in his grass.

“It ain't like that, I swear, fam!” the man hollered. Zyir could see the fear in the man's eyes, but he had no sympathy. In Miami he had love, respect. They had their enemies, no doubt, but he never had to worry about getting robbed by someone he did business with down there. His hometown was an entirely different ball game. It was a city full of wolves and they were starving. A come-up was a come-up. It didn't matter if a nigga had to kill his man in order to sit at the table. Niggas just wanted to eat. If the opportunity was lucrative enough, even the best of friend could turn foe. Zyir threw him back to the ground. He was a pleading, bleeding, blubbering mess because they both knew what Zyir had to do.