Anything for Profit 2: Nothing to Lose (6 page)

Cameras from all of the local networks were capturing this exclusive news conference and broadcasting it live. Thousands of residents all over the Upstate sat transfixed to their televisions as the news broke. Shootings happened all the time in Greenville, but the audacity of someone to open fire in broad daylight in the heart of the city still had many residents in shock. And two counts of first degree murder meant that both of the victims had died. Didn’t it?! This was the biggest story to hit the city the entire year. Reporters were all over it… like flies on shit.

There was a plethora of journalists at the scene. All of them had their arms extended with tape recorders in their hands, as they shouted out questions and jockeyed for position. Everybody was clamoring to catch an exclusive piece of this juicy story. This was the type of story journalists ejaculated in their dreams about. It could make their career.

Among the many reporters who were on the scene was News 4’s Jennifer Henderson. But she was finding it hard to buy the story the Sherriff was trying to sell, for some reason. Maybe it was her naturally suspicious mind. Or maybe everything about this case just seemed a little bit too convenient. A little bit too perfect. The police just
happened
to get an anonymous tip? And this tip just
happened
to lead to the arrest of four men who were all in a house together with a large cache of guns and drugs
at the same time
? It was a possible, but highly improbable scenario in Jennifer’s mind. She had only been an investigative reporter for a short period of time, but she knew that when something seemed too good to be true, it usually was. Two plus two was four, but she kept coming up with five here. Jennifer had a feeling that there was a lot more to this story.

The Sherriff made a few more comments in praise of his office for the great job they had done. He was doing damage control. Over the past several months, the Sherriff’s office had faced a constant barrage of negative publicity from Ralph Flemming (head of the local NAACP) for their inability, or unwillingness to solve crimes where blacks were the victims. The national media had also picked up the story and Flemming had been milking the exposure for his own political purposes.

“Maybe this’ll shut that nigger Flemming’s fucking pie hole for a while,” whispered Mayor White into the ear of his top assistant. The Sherriff took a few questions from the press. He then turned the conference over to Mayor White so he could also bask in the positive press associated with the bust. After all… it was election season. The mayor could definitely use a boost in popularity if he planned on getting re-elected. And a lot of people needed him back in office… for various reasons.

Meka had seen enough of this fucking circus. It was all just politics, as usual. Nobody gave a fuck about the lives that were lost or the families who had to bury them. She turned her back on the television and whatever bullshit the mayor was talking about and bolted from Desireés house with tears beginning to well up in her eyes. She managed to hold them back as she hopped into her custom painted, pink Range Rover Sport and sped out of the driveway. Desireé was left standing in the doorway in her silk kimono as the smell of burnt rubber filled her nostrils.

CHAPTER 6

“Aaaaaaaah!!! The piercing scream of the man lying naked on the concrete slab didn’t sound entirely human and was loud enough to be heard miles away. And probably would have been… if the walls to the room he was confined to weren’t underground as well as soundproof. Each limb of his naked body was strapped to a corner of the concrete slab that sat in the center of a large, dank basement. “Por favor, por favor! Yo estoy pidiendo que dejes! Te dire’ lo que quieras saber! Lojuro porla vida de mis hijos!” The man pleaded in his native tongue. The language of pain was one that was universal. His body was drenched with sweat. Fear emanated from his pores and saturated the air with its stench as a piece of skin was slowly peeled from his calf.

“There’s really no need for you to swear on the lives of your children,” said Zulu. He had been living in Greenville for years, but his accent was still distinctly South Side, Jamaica Queens. There wasn’t a hint of emotion in his voice. Fluent in many languages, he had understood every word the man had just cried out. “And there’s no information that you can provide me that I don’t already have. No… today your worthless body will be used to send a message to your
amigos
that their presence is no longer welcome.”

Greenville, like many other southern cities was experiencing a large influx of Mexicans and along with their illegal status came illegal drugs and extremely violent gangs. Many of these immigrants were just poor people who migrated to the U.S. like so many other nationalities had done for hundreds of years, in search of a better life and the fabled ‘American Dream’. Zulu’s own parents had emigrated from Africa with those same hopes.

He had nothing against people who wanted a better standard of living. But when gangs such as the notorious Mexican Mafia and other Mexican cartels began to blatantly encroach upon his territory? It was like they were spitting in his face. Not only was it extremely disrespectful, but it also affected his bottom line and undermined his authority. So an example had to be made; not only to the Mexicans, but also to the members of his own organization who might have been starting to think shit was sweet. You never knew what went on in the minds of men. But as long as they feared you, they would always think twice before they crossed you. Fear was a currency that one could never have enough of in this business.

Zulu had assembled the top fifteen members of his organization, M.B.M. (Money by Any Means), for a meeting. If his nephew Twan had still been alive, he’d have been there as well. Unfortunately
, if
can be a very big two letter word. Zulu still silently mourned the loss of his sister’s only son, who’d been set up and brutally murdered only a few months back. In vengeance, he had ordered the execution of any and everybody who’d had anything to do with his nephew’s death.

So the broad daylight hit that transpired yesterday had been a well thought-out move of retaliation. Of course, Zulu hadn’t anticipated a pregnant woman being in the truck when he gave the order but… oh well. Fuck her. In war, there was always a little collateral damage. And there were two other names that kept coming up whenever the murder of his nephew was mentioned. He definitely planned on dealing with them as well, but for now, there were more pressing issues that needed to be attended to. Like these fucking Mexican ‘wet backs’ that seemed to be popping up like roaches. It was definitely time to send them a message as well.

“Aaaaaaaah!!!!” the naked man screamed out again at the top of his lungs. Another piece of his skin had just been slowly peeled from his body with a razor sharp Swedish hunting knife. Blood was everywhere and the muscles on his lower leg were now fully exposed. You could actually see the muscles on his leg move as he tried to free himself. He bucked and struggled wildly to break free of the restraints that kept his body strapped to the cement slab. His efforts were in vain and he only further weakened himself in the process. Zulu laughed. He took great pleasure in the torture of other human beings. It was one of his favorite pastimes. When he purchased this house, he’d had the basement made specifically for that purpose.

He loved to hear the pathetic cries and pleas of his victims as they begged for mercy. He’d reduced even the toughest of tough guys to nothing more than babbling, crying bitches by the time he was done with them. This man was no different. His screams were piercing, but they fell on deaf ears. Zulu grinned as he continued to skin alive the high ranking member of the Mexican Mafia. The fifteen men he had assembled looked on. Some in disgust, others in complete shock and disbelief at the utter savagery they were witnessing. The screams suddenly stopped. Even after the man was clearly dead from the severe blood he’d lost, Zulu kept peeling away with the hunting knife until the man’s entire muscular system was exposed. Pieces of flesh and blood littered the basement’s cement floor. Zulu let the bloody knife fall to the floor and looked up. What he saw in the eyes of his lieutenants was exactly what he wanted to see: fear; unadulterated fear. He smiled.

$$$

Meka came to a screeching halt in front of her mama’s house in Bellmeade. Bellmeade was one of the many hoods that made up the infamous District 25. She hopped out of the Range and ran to the front door. Just as she was getting ready to put her keys in the lock, the door flew open. Standing in the doorway with a chopper (AK-47) resting on his shoulder was her brother. “Goddamn girl, I ain’t know who the fuck you was at first, pullin’ up all crazy like that,” he exclaimed with a slight chuckle.

“Yeah it’s me, Ant,” she said as she gave her brother a hug and planted a quick kiss on his lips. “Where mama at? You said anything to her?”

“Naw, I ain’t told her shit. She in the living room watching T.V.,” he responded, sniffing.

“Ant…” Meka looked into her brother’s eyes. She couldn’t get the words out. She didn’t have to. They’d been through so much together and the fact that they were twins had made their bond so strong that sometimes a look was all that was needed.

“Mike’s dead ain’t it?” he asked rhetorically. Meka didn’t want to acknowledge the truth with words so she simply nodded her head yes. “Fuck!” Ant exploded. “Fuuuck!” He punched the door repeatedly in frustration and anger. He’d taken many lives, been in countless shootouts and had attended numerous funerals but he had never for a second entertained the possibility of his closest homey getting killed. Despite all the crazy ass shit they had done in the streets. Or maybe
because
of all the crazy ass shit they’d done and gotten away with, he’d always felt they were invincible…

Ant and Meka had known Mike since they were thirteen. He was fourteen and living in a group home. He was about to be jumped by some other kids in West Greenville when they had stepped in and helped. They became inseparable. Eventually, he ran away from the group home and moved in with the twins and Glo, who took him in and treated him just like one of her own. Now somebody had to tell Glo that he was gone. Ant was beyond angry. He wanted to kill somebody... preferably that fuck nigga Zulu.

Glo heard all the noise and commotion and came out of the living and walked into the kitchen. “What’s all that noise in here? What’s going on?” Glo spotted the gun in her son’s hand and the expression on her daughter’s face. “Oh lawd. Somebody wanna tell me what’s going on?” The silence was deafening. “Well?” asked Glo, expectantly with a hand on her hip.

“Mike’s dead,” Ant spit out.

“No. No, nooooo!” Gloria half moaned, half screamed as she slumped to the ground crying. “Nooooo!” This was a devastating blow to a woman who had come very close to losing her only daughter just a few months ago to the streets. Now a young boy that she had taken in and fed and loved like her own was gone way too soon. And she didn’t have to know the details to know it was a violent death. Though she often turned a blind eye to her children’s activities, she was far from naive.

Ant and Meka looked on as their mother just sat on the kitchen’s linoleum floor, sobbing into her hands. Meka came all the way into the kitchen and closed the door behind her, locking it. The twins picked their mother up off the ground and held her as she relieved her grief. “It’s gonna be okay mama,” said Meka, on the verge of tears herself. It wasn’t going to be okay, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Suddenly there was a loud screeching sound outside as a car came to an abrupt stop. The kitchen windows that faced the road simultaneously imploded with gunfire. “Get down!” Ant yelled at his mama and sister as he ran to the door and unlocked it. He cocked the chopper back, threw the door open and ran outside firing at the assailants that were idling at the curb in a dark blue Crown Victoria. The adrenaline running through his veins along with a couple of grams of coke had Ant not giving a fuck about anything but seeing one of these bitch niggas dead. “Muthafuckaaaaas!” he yelled out as he kept advancing towards the car, firing.

Meka got up off the kitchen floor sweating and frantically reached into her Louis Vuitton handbag. Bullets were still flying and Glo yelled at her daughter to get down, but after retrieving her Glock 9mm she ran to the door and also began shooting back at the would be assassins. Ant was still running towards the car, letting off shots from the chopper when he heard one of the passengers scream out in pain. He couldn’t tell who it was, but from the way the car swerved erratically from the curb he assumed he had hit the driver. He stood in the middle of the road and continued to squeeze the trigger until the magazine was empty and the car was gone.

The whole episode was over in less than a couple of minutes. To most civilians, what had just transpired would seem like a scene from a movie. But for the combatants who were knee deep in the streets, this was the norm. If you lived the type of life where even the most banal disputes were settled over the barrel of a gun, violence had the tendency to pop off at any given moment. And when it did, how you reacted to that violence often determined whether you lived or died. After a while you just said ‘fuck it’ and became accustomed to it.

Ant stood in the center of the road where the car had been, still holding the AK in his hands. The smell of burnt rubber and cordite was heavy in the air. His chest was heaving from the physical exertion and his heart was racing. “Ant!” Meka screamed out as she ran from the house to where her brother stood. “You alright?”