"Good. Just checkin' 'cause we ain't got no room for error tonight," stated Gunna.

Lamar said nothing but kept his eyes on the road while Gunna scrolled through his recent calls and called their prey to let him know that he was coming to get his usual nine ounces. Little did the drug connect know, this time things were going to be a little bit different. Gunna was coming to kill, and take everything that he had. He ended the call and directed Lamar down a one-way street.

"Right there, that's the crib. Spin the block," demanded Gunna. They checked one last time for anything unusual or out of place and felt comfortable with what they saw. Gunna dug between the two front seats for his Taurus .357 Magnum firearm. Upon retrieving it, he called the house again. "Yo, I'm out front, Snake. On my way to the front door."

"Hold on a minute, Gunna. I'm about to slide out," Snake replied.

This instantly threw Gunna and Lamar's plan. "Aight, I'm parked across the street with my lights on. Aye, look, though, my man wants four whole joints. I told him 'bout you so make sure you hook him up," Gunna said straight piping the gullible drug dealer's head up, making him believe that he had the best cocaine in the area.

"I got whatever you need, Gunna. I know you a good dude. Let me put that together and I'll be right out," Snake said eagerly, before hanging up the phone.

Gunna knew that he was too greedy to peep the blitz.

Gunna shifted his attention to Lamar. "Damn, dog."

"What's up?"

"The nigga bringin' the work out here to the wheel. I told 'em to bring four kilos of raw, though, so if nothin' else, we can take that from the nigga."

"Fuck four bricks, we came to take everything. All we gotta do is grip him up out here and make him take us the fuck in there. Shit simple."

"That's a bet. Here the nigga comes right now," Gunna said, as he rolled the window down and signaled Snake in his direction.

Snake walked up to the car, leaned over, and stuck his head through the window.

"Gunna, what's up, baby boy?" he said, placing a Dr. Denim boutique bag containing the weed and cocaine on Gunna's lap. "It's all in there. Yours and his," he said, pointing at Lamar.

"Good, I know, but unfortunately we came for it all," Gunna said, sticking his .357 into the man's neck and snatching more than half of his body through the window.

Lamar hurried out of the car, ran around to the passenger side, and was greeted by Snake's dangling feet. He took a Walther PPK 7.65-caliber semi-automatic pistol from the man's back, which he struggled to grab. After he was stripped of his security, Snake yelled for help.

"Shut the fuck up," Gunna said through gritted teeth, and then smacked him over the head with his gun.

Snake didn't listen.

He figured the more that he screamed, the more his attackers would become scared of being caught and flee. He hoped they'd be happy with just the coke and the money, sparing his life.

Lamar grabbed the man from the window, put his .40 to his back. His free hand cupped the man's mouth, muffling the intense screaming. "Make another fuckin' noise," Lamar said, guiding him back towards the house, "and I'll blow ya fuckin' spinal cord out. Your brains next. I promise you that."

Gunna popped the trunk and threw the drugs inside, before joining Lamar with Snake who was struggling for his life. They reached the bottom of the steps leading to the house when the neighbor's porch light came to life.

So did Snake.

He bit down into the flesh of Lamar's hand, causing him to bark, "This pussy bit me," as Snake broke away from his grasp. "He muthafuckin' bit my hand."

Snake bitched and ran for his life, while Lamar's hand bled profusely.

Snake didn't get far.

Lamar threw his bleeding hand into his hoodie pocket to avoid leaving DNA at the scene, using his good hand to send shots into Snake's back. Gunna had let off also, causing Snake's body to lift into the air, spin around, and come back down. He hit the ground, sounding like a stack of wet newspapers. His body convulsed like a fish freshly out of the sea.

Lamar had kept his promise.

The shooters raced back to the Marauder and hopped inside.

"Damn, man, we supposed to be the fuck up right now, bro," Gunna said, banging on the dashboard. Lamar pulled off, and he said, "Aye, stop the car, Lambchop. Stop the fuckin' car."

Lamar slammed on the brakes causing the car to jerk; Gunna opened the car door with the car in motion, hopped out, leaving the door wide open. He ran up to the body and fired two rounds into the sufferer's face, before sending some bullets in the direction of Snake's house.

"Come the fuck on, dog. The law comin' and neighbors coming out. You drawin'," Lamar called out.

Gunna returned to the slow rolling Marauder, hopped in and Lamar burned rubber.

"Lambchop, we had that nigga," Gunna said, sobering up from his murderous high acquired from killing.

"Don't worry 'bout that shit, Gunna. Our ticket gon' come."

CHAPTER 10

Special Agent Livingston was let behind the Upper Darby PD's crime tape and discovered Snake's mutilated body underneath a piece of plastic in between two cars. Because of the proximity that the FBI agent was behind Gunna and Lamar, he arrived late to observe the actual soiree but was there to prove they were there. He had a thirst for shell casings and witnesses for a photo array. It was cool, but the body was emitting an odor. He fanned the funk with a handkerchief.

Snake's stomach was blown out and covered in gastric fluids. What SA Livingston had smelled had not been decayed flesh but human excrement. At the point of death, Snake's bladder and bowels spontaneously emptied.

The blood near the body trailed back to a home with people huddled in front of it with a woman crying loudly and neighbors talking to detectives. Blood had begun to absorb into the concrete, and had started to coagulate. SA Livingston wanted to put a bug into the lead detective's ear to be sure that no errors were made at the crime scene. That was how many investigations failed, ultimately leaving a prosecutor without the necessary evidence to convict the killer. He was determined to assure mistakes weren't made. He would stick around until the body was identified, stored by a medical examiner, and sure that the chief pathologist rushed an autopsy.

SA Livingston pressed his lips together looking up at the night sky before calling AUSA Reynolds. He grimaced at how the Dunken conspiracy continued to unfold, but there would be no problems for jurors to convict his man: Lamar Dunken.

CHAPTER 11

After last night's murder, Lamar decided to spend the day in the house with Nikia. Amazing that she had concluded that he only stayed in after committing heinous acts. It was just after eight a.m. and she was in the kitchen cooking them breakfast. He'd been watching the news all morning praying that he wouldn't be featured as a wanted man. He wasn't. The anchorman did report that there had been at least one witness to the murder, but according to police, a positive identification hadn't been made. That could be a lie, Lamar thought. There was a description of the getaway car, though. On the TV screen was a black Marauder the same color as Lamar's, and the anchor asked anyone that had seen the car to call Upper Darby detectives.

"I know how to handle that," he mumbled angrily under his breath. "Muthafuckers can't not see shit anymore."

His mind raced with countless thoughts until Nikia broke into them: "Lamar, did you see the news?" She was yelling from downstairs.

"Yeah, I saw that shit."

He heard her storming up the stairs. When she entered the room, Lamar saw fire in her eyes. She crossed her arms and shifted one foot to the other, leaning against the dresser.

"So did you kill him?" She asked in a disgusted tone.