The Prada Plan 2: Leah's Story (10 page)

When Indie finally made it home, he was covered in blood and exhausted as Chase wheeled him through the front door. YaYa had fallen asleep at her kitchen table. He was so defeated that he didn’t want to wake her. His murder session had gotten them no closer to finding Sky, and inside he felt as if he were failing his family.

“We’ll get her back, fam, or the entire city gonna feel it until we do,” Chase said encouragingly. Even he didn’t believe the words he spoke, but he knew that it was his duty to stand tall. He slapped hands with Indie and then left, knowing that there was nothing left that he could do.

Indie grimaced as he wheeled himself over to YaYa. Her arms were crossed on the table and her head rested atop them. She clasped the red envelope tightly in her hand.

Indie moved her hair out of her face gently with his finger.

“Wake up, YaYa,” he whispered then squeezed her hand.

Hearing his voice, she stirred from her unpleasant slumber. Her red eyes revealed her aching heart. “Indie…” she whispered.

“I have to tell you something, ma,” Indie said. He knew that it was time to tell her that he was at a dead end and there was a big possibility that baby Sky would never be returned. He was at a loss. His street tactics hadn’t gotten him anywhere.

“Me too,” she said. Indie put his finger to her lips to silence her.

“Let me get this out, YaYa. I’ve done everything I can to find my baby girl. I don’t think—”

“Indie, listen to me,” YaYa said, interrupting him. “There’s a ransom note.”

She handed him the red envelope and watched as his eyes turned dark while reading the demands.

“Someone came into the house the day that you were shot and left it in Sky’s room, in her crib. Whoever took her was here, Indie, and they have my baby,” YaYa cried.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Indie asked quietly, feeling as if YaYa had lost hope in him.

“When was I supposed to tell you, Indie? When the doctors were removing bullets from your chest?” YaYa asked sincerely. “I didn’t want to put anything else on you. You couldn’t take the stress. You barely survived, babe. I knew that if I had told you this, it might have killed you. I was going to tell you when the time was right. Do we have half a million, Indie?”

The look on his face gave her the answer before he even opened his lips to speak. Five hundred thousand dollars in liquid cash was hard to come by. He had real estate, cars, jewelry, and had recently made some investments in the campaigns of key political figures in Houston, so his liquid assets were low at the moment. He only had $250,000 but knew that he had access to the finest coke connect in the world.

“Indie, just tell me the truth. Do you have the money?” YaYa asked.

“I’ll get it,” he assured.

“Friday is only three days away,” YaYa stated.

“I said I’ll get it,” he said as he pushed away from the table. He had no time to recuperate or rest. He would have to move a lot of bricks to come up with the other half of the ransom money, and the time frame under which he was attempting to do it was almost impossible.

He went into the family room and put in a call. It was time to contact Zya, his coke connection, one of the largest female suppliers in the world and a member of the Supreme Clientele round table.

Zya got off of the international flight and raised her Gucci sunglasses off of her tanned face as she stepped into the airport. Her cream-colored Prada pantsuit and matching shoes gave her an aura of sex appeal, yet the mystery of her persona was hidden by the large shades and silk headscarf that she wore. Heads turned as her stilettos echoed off of the tiled floor and she wheeled her designer luggage through the terminal. Zya was much more than a bad bitch; she was a boss. Taught by the best, she knew all of the ins and outs of the dope game. From corner hustling to private jet setting, she had seen it all. Under any other circumstances, she wouldn’t be caught dead in the States, let alone “lynch a nigga” Texas, but one of her most valued customers had called in a favor.

As she exited the airport, she saw a black Lincoln Town Car waiting curbside for her. She walked over to it and nodded to the driver as he opened the back door for her. Indie sat inside. They had come up in the game together. Back when she was hustling small time for her ex-boyfriend Jules, Indie was buying work from them. He had graduated from ounces to kilos, and she had been upgraded from wifey to HBIC. They both had come a long way since their days of Harlem dreamin’. They were both major now, and in the game so deep that they knew they would die playing it. They couldn’t leave their coke hustles alone. Just like they needed the paper, the game needed them. There were very few players left who understood the rules, and Zya and Indie were veterans.

“Hello, Indie Perkins,” Zya said, her voice like a sweet melody. Her creamy brown skin and Coke-bottle figure were the most beautiful features Indie had ever seen on a woman. She was stunning, the last person anyone would ever suspect of drug trafficking, but looks could be deceiving. Zya moved more bricks than a cement mason.

“What’s good, Zya Miller?” he replied with a friendly smile. There had never been anything between them but good vibes and chemistry, and they never acted on it. The only thing they did well together was make money. Two hustlers with such fervent love for getting paid had no time for one another. They both understood what it took to be great in the game, and they respected one another enough to not be each other’s downfall. On top of that, Zya’s husband, Snow, was a good friend of Indie’s, and messing with Zya would be going against the code completely. He was a man, however, and her pretty face was always nice to look at.

“Since when do you get hit?” Zya asked. She knew everything about everyone she dealt with, and was surprised to hear the news of Indie’s shooting. “In all the years that you’ve been at this, now you want to get caught slipping?” Her tone was playful, but the worry could be seen in her gaze. She was concerned.

“I’m fine,” he replied.

“Indie, you’re not fine,” she shot back. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Indie wasn’t one to throw a pity party for himself. He needed Zya to hit him with the bricks, but he wanted her to extend her services based on her trust in him, not out of sympathy.

“I’m not really gonna get into that right now. I need you to front me some work. A lot of work, actually. I’ve got some buyers lined up, but I’m not in a position to put up the money right now,” Indie stated.

“You flew me back to the States to discuss a consignment deal?” Zya asked, surprised. “You know I don’t fuck with consignment, Indie. It’s cash and carry.”

“You know I wouldn’t come at you unless it would be beneficial for you. I’m willing to put a twenty percent tax on your repayment,” Indie proposed.

Knowing that Indie was good money, she nodded her head. This wasn’t a favor she would extend to just anyone, but Indie had been one of her best buyers for years, and she knew that although he didn’t want to disclose what was going on, if he was even asking this favor, then he really needed it.

“I can have the bricks delivered to you tonight,” she said. “You know if you need shooters, I got them for days,” Zya said, offering her soldiers for whatever war Indie was wrapped up in.

“I appreciate it, ma, but I’m good. The bricks are more than enough,” Indie said.

Zya nodded and then clapped her hands together. “Well, I flew all the way here for you. Now I think you owe me lunch,” she said with a dazzling smile.

Indie put his hand over his heart and said, “I owe you more than that, but lunch will do.”

Knowing that Zya was top notch and used to the best things life had to offer, Indie escorted her to the best restaurant in town. They dined like old friends, but couldn’t entertain one another for long. Zya was wanted in the States and never visited often. So, like a ghost, she had to disappear before she came up on anyone’s radar.

“Be careful, Indie. I see the way that this business is beginning to change for you. You don’t want to end up like me, ostracized and lonely. I can’t go back home to Harlem. I can’t even be here with you without looking over my shoulder every minute. But it’s either this or spend the rest of my life in prison, and I refuse to do that.

“Don’t end up like me. Sometimes the money and the power are not worth the sacrifice. Get out while you’re on top, not when you’re about to fall,” Zya said.

“I will, ma. I just have to take care of a couple things for my family. After that I’m out for good,” he said.

Zya stood from her seat and walked over to where Indie was seated. She bent over and kissed both of his cheeks. “I have to be going. You know I can’t stay for too long. YaYa is a very lucky woman. You remind me a lot of my own husband. I hope that baby Skylar is returned back to you,” she whispered. She grabbed his hand and patted it gently before she walked out of the room.

Indie turned and looked at her backside as she strutted out of the restaurant with a model’s precision. He had no idea how she knew about his situation with Sky. He had never even told her about his relationship with YaYa, but she had subtly let him know that she was well versed in his affairs. All he could do was shake his head as he thought,
That’s a bad bitch.

DING! DONG!

YaYa opened the door and was greeted by two deliverymen.

“Disaya Morgan?” one of the men asked.

Confused, she replied, “Uh…yeah, I’m Disaya.”

“We have a furniture delivery for you,” the guy said as he handed her a clipboard. YaYa frowned, but gave him her John Hancock and then watched as they carried a $10,000 Italian leather group into her home. She smiled slightly, thinking that it was a gift from Indie that would lift her spirits, but she was too low to truly appreciate the thoughtfulness.

Indie came into the room, and without speaking, he walked over to the furniture.

“Can you hand me the box cutter from the kitchen drawer?” he asked.

YaYa did as she was told and winced when she saw him cut into the leather furniture.

“Indie! What are you doing?” she asked, but when she saw the plastic-wrapped kilos that he pulled out of the couch she fully understood.

“I have to make this money for Sky,” he said.

Anxious about the cash drop, YaYa remained silent as she watched an injured Indie put the bricks in several duffle bags. The feds had pulled out of their home. Their attention had been turned elsewhere, and although the case was still open, they had little help that it would ever be solved. With them gone, Indie was able to move freely. The last thing he needed was a watchful eye over him while he was trying to move weight.

Zya had made good on her promise and had Indie’s package delivered to him. Now he had to make good on his promise and find their daughter.

The night was too still. Everything seemed so peaceful as YaYa looked out her second story bedroom window, but a storm was brewing. She could feel it. The red numbers on her alarm clock were a horrible reminder the lack of sleep she was suffering from. She had only taken catnaps here and there, but true peace of mind had been evasive. She couldn’t rest with her life in shambles and her daughter lost to the streets; so, she stayed up day and night as her body begged for a break.

She turned toward the bed where Indie lay. The bandages on his chest were soaked in blood, and she knew that he needed to be in a hospital, but he refused. He insisted that he remain at home with her. Attempting to be her rock was slowly killing him. His snore was a result of the pain medication rather than true dreams. She tightened her short silk robe and walked over to his bedside.

“I love you,” she whispered as she bent over him and kissed his forehead. The night was so still that the sound of feet against her walkway erupted in her ears like a bomb. She didn’t know if it was her nerves that put her on edge, but she rushed to the window as a bad omen swept over her.

Her hand flew to her mouth in disbelief as her eyes widened. “Indie…Indie!” she called out in alarm. Twenty FBI agents swarmed her home in full SWAT gear and automatic weapons in their hands. Instinctively, the little ghetto girl in her came out as her mind went to the bricks of cocaine that Indie had in the closet. He had not gotten a chance to get them off yet. A meeting had been set up and Indie was supposed to make a large sale the very next day. If only the Feds had held off for a few more hours, there would be no bricks to find, but they were coming, and it looked as if tomorrow would never come. YaYa knew that if the cops found them, both she and Indie could kiss their freedom good-bye.

“Indie!” she called out as she sprinted to the walk-in closet. There was no way she was dumping the bricks. It was too much money to lose, and she had too little time to get rid of them all anyway. She grabbed the duffle bags and pulled up the trap door to the bottom of the closet.

BOOM!

She heard the front door crash to the ground as the feds knocked it off the hinges and came flooding into her home. Her hands shook violently as she put the combination into the safe, her fingers turning the dial right, then left, then right again. She closed her eyes as she visualized Indie opening the safe. He didn’t even think she knew it was there, but YaYa knew everything that went on underneath her roof. It was a woman’s job to snoop, and now she was glad that she had.

Bingo! s
he thought as it came open. She stuffed the bag inside and quickly secured the safe. Just as she kicked a pile of clothes over the trap door, federal agents came flooding into her room.

“Get on the ground! Put your hands up and get on the floor now!” they hollered as they pointed guns her way.

“Wait! He’s medicated and recovering from a gunshot wound! He can’t get on the ground!” she screamed as she fought to make her way toward Indie’s side.

“On the ground, ma’am, now! I won’t say it again!” one of the agents said as he pointed his gun at her. YaYa put her hands up near her head and reluctantly got on her knees as she watched the agents manhandle Indie.