The car stopped and the passenger’s window came down. An arm came out holding a .45. Bullets chipped the tree as Hamma dipped down and pulled the AK from the bag. Trap and Gunna rushed to the pavement and threw shots at the car. Their Ruger and .44 tore the car to pieces and one of them—or both—killed the driver attempting to exit the car.

Before they knew it, Slam and Roc Wilda came from the opposite direction aiming at them.

Hamma was up and ran into the middle of the street, jumping on the hood of the car, and spraying up the passenger. The impact sent the passenger soaring into the back seat. He hopped off the hood, trotted around to the driver’s door and pulled the driver all the way out. He kicked the dead body, snatched his gun, and then shot him in the face with his own weapon before tossing the gun to the ground. Bitch ass, nigga.

Trap and Gunna battled with Slam and Roc Wilda who had occupied them while Hamma went to work. Trap ducked behind a car, peeking out when he could fire a round. Roc Wilda emptied all seven shots from his .380. He grazed Trap’s arm and caused him to throw the gun in the air.

“Ah, shit,” Trap screamed, grabbing his arm. “This pussy shot me.”

Gunna watched Trap go into hysteria as shots continued to come his way. Slam was desperately trying to take Gunna out; he had to. He was unable to get a steady shot due to Hamma’s AK slugs rapidly making their way in his direction.

“Aye, Hamma, watch my body, homie,” Gunna shouted, making an effort to run and cover Trap.

Hamma did as he was asked, forcing Slam and Roc Wilda to retreat, while Gunna sprinted to pick up Trap’s gun. Just as Gunna sent five shots from Trap’s Ruger, Slam turned around firing. A bullet cracked Gunna in the shoulder of his good arm and caused him to spin in a complete circle. The next two jumped into his chest. Hamma was behind a car reloading the AK, and Slam took advantage of that. He hit Gunna a few more times before it was a wrap. Gunna fell face first to the ground.

“Gangsta shit, I lived for it,” Gunna said, choking on his words before taking his last breath.

“No man slaps my daughter,” Slam said, dipping back up the block with Roc Wilda in tow.

Hamma roared, “Arrrggghhh,” spraying bullets in Slams direction. He had no chance of hitting his foe, but it felt good.

“Come on, li’l nigga. He dead. Grab ya gun,” Hamma told Trap rushing to his truck.

Trap grabbed the Ruger from Gunna’s dead grip, then they hopped in the Range Rover and split.

“Get Lambchop on the phone. I want these niggas ASAP,” Hamma said, speeding down Kingsessing Avenue.

CHAPTER 46

Gary Monroe happily drove the early morning shift on the SEPTA trolley that transported passengers from Downtown Philadelphia up Chester Avenue, deep into Southwest Philadelphia and ending in Delaware County. At six thirty a.m., he nonchalantly nodded at boarding commuters, and absently whistled a Stevie Wonder tune, Happy Birthday.

He had driven the same route for twelve years and was blessed to be out of the game with a real job—pension and the 401K plan included—despite relapsing and shooting at Lamar’s crew. Monroe had always been a thug. That hadn’t left his DNA, but he was cautious with his display of the trait. Over the years, he had acquired a business degree from Strayer University and was preparing to open a bus shuttle service from Philadelphia to federal jails in no-man’s-land Pennsylvania. Life was good for him, and his wife, Carolyn, he turned fifty-three today. Happy Birthday!

Through the early morning fog, he saw a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye through the rearview before the trolley stopped. The power was dead, just like Roc Wilda.

Bad ass kids, he thought. Just worthless. He stood up and told the passengers, “Sorry folks, some bad demon child just pulled the trains’ cable from the power line. I’m going to reconnect it, and we’ll be on our way.”

He whistled Happy Birthday over the “oh come ons’ and ‘what the fucks’ coming from passengers, as he exited the trolley and walked around to the back of the iron-horse. As he reached to reconnect the cable, a masked man, popped up, tapped on Roc Wilda’s shoulder interrupting his tune.

He turned around and Lamar squeezed two silent rounds that hit the driver smack-dab in the middle of his face. The driver’s conductor’s cap flipped off of his head. His flesh and blood painted the back of the trolley and the tracks.

“Happy birthday, my ass, muthafucka,” Lamar said. “This is your worse birthday ever,” he added, running to his stolen getaway car. “Man down,” he confirmed into a walkie-talkie mobile phone, pulling into traffic

“ROGER THAT,” HAMMA replied into the walkie-talkie smiling.

Trap was giggling like a little kid and rubbing his hands together. “We’re up next.”

Hamma and Trap sat in a stolen car across the street from Celebrity’s day care center. They were in the same spot, they’d watched Slam drop her off every day for the past week. Slam had been pulling up on his 2005 Camry and spinning the block two times before parking, getting out, and taking Celebrity inside. He was fully aware of what he was taking on, so he was extra cautious.

“This nigga, Lambchop, crazy as shit,” Hamma said, laughing, and fiddling with his new SK. “He wants me to kill his daughter, too. That’s a fucking project terrorist, for real.”

“Fuck it. If that’s what he wants, then that’s what we gonna do,” Trap said.

“Oh, naw. I don’t give a shit about sleepin’ the li’l one. I do this shit. Men, women, and children. You hear me?”

“Listen, I hear you, all that cool shit sounds good. If you’d hit the nigga the other night like you were supposed to, we wouldn’t be going through this shit now. Gunna dead and shit. Glad he had a closed casket and funeral. ‘cause shit may have gotten real like we did at Mossberg’s jawn. You got me gettin’ up this whole week all early and shit, just to watch this nigga. I am tired as a muthafucka right now.”

“Nigga, you the one that was bitchin’, talking ‘bout you got hit, when ya stupid ass got grazed, yellin’...ah shit, I’m hit. Like a li’l ass girl. So, miss me with all that.”

“You had a K, dog. How the fuck you miss them, niggas?” Trap asked, before noticing Slam’s Camry pull up.

Slam stopped, looked around, and made his usual two trips around the block.

“He just pulled up,” Hamma shot through the walkie-talkie, before pulling a latch back on the SK and making sure it was ready to go.”

“What the fuck is on the front of that shit?” Trap asked, looking at the bayonet, sitting on top of the assault rifle.

“I’m ‘bout to show you.”

Slam pulled back around and finally parked his car. he got out, dressed in jeans, boots, and a blue Atlanta Braves hat, pulled down, and a hoodie with dark shades that covered a large portion of his face. He double looked at the tinted Honda Accord that Hamma and Trap hid in, but paid it no mind as he grabbed Celebrity from her car seat. Once getting her out, he covered her with a small blanket to protect her from the air. He then grabbed her bag, shut the door and headed for the daycare.

Hamma tiptoed across the street.

Slam took one step down the stairs to the daycare’s basement before Hamma jammed the SK into his back. Hamma yanked at the trigger three times.

“Get off my knife, pussy,” Hamma grinned, kicking and pulling the knife out of Slam, forcing him to tumble down the stairs with Celebrity in his arms.

Hamma fired more shots into the back of Slam’s head and body as he lay face down. He looked down at the baby who wasn’t moving or crying, apparently dead from the fall down the stairs.

Finished his mission, he broke back across the street to the stolen Accord.

“Man and baby down,” he said, breathing calmly into the walkie-talkie, letting Lamar know that Slam’s life was officially terminated.

CHAPTER 47

Lamar and his team were right back to getting money. They had killed Slam, Roc Wilda, and was looking for Redz because he had a date with death. Despite that, Lamar was in better position to get to his ten million without meddling from washed-up thugs. Since the war began, he regretted nothing. The way he saw it, he was less likely to see his daughter again anyway, knowing Nikia would have probably run off with her. He had yet to figure out where she and her mother was hiding. From Lamar’s perspective, the only rule to a war was to win, so he’d find and eliminate them.

Just before he left out of his new home shared with Amilli in Aberdeen, Maryland, he grabbed his keys and kissed an expecting Amilli on her forehead. He told her that he’d be back in a couple of hours. She had resigned from the Philadelphia Prison System and was planning to open a restaurant to wash Lamar’s dirty money.