In the middle of the Passyunk Bridge, spanning the Schuylkill River between the South Philadelphia and the Southwest Philadelphia areas, Hamma went for it. He slowed up as the first Crown Victoria turned on its lights. The three other cars sped up, appearing as if by magic, looking to box him in. Ta da!

Hamma slammed his foot down on the gas pedal. He pushed the BMW close to its top speed, weaved through traffic, and calmly instructed Monica too, “grab the coke out the back seat slowly. Without them seeing you.”

She complied as he worked to keep distance between him and the police.

With some length between them, he told Monica too, “take each brick out of the bag, rip them open, and start dumping that shit.”

“Hell no. That’s dumb as fuck.” She barked, catching him off guard.

“Bitch, if you don’t toss that coke outta this fucking car, I’mma pull over and whoop ya ass.”

“And get locked the fuck up.”

“After I blow ya fucking brains over this black interior,” he said through gritted teeth. “Now dump the dope.”

“No. Fuck no. You need to get off the e-way, turn a corner and let me toss this whole damn duffle out. I don’t give a fuck, I am not pouring coke out of the car, ‘cause all kinds of accidents. Kill someone. No.”

He huffed, and said, “You’re lucky you make a lot of sense.”

“And I fuck real good, too. That’s why I am here and not ya stank ass, baby mom. But now ain’t the time to read the shit outta her.”

Swerving around a beat up Mazda, he said, “If we get outta this shit...” He just shook his head, taking exit 345 toward 30th Street. He was speechless. Of all places, he entered Center City. What the fuck would Lamar do?

Hamma turned right onto Chestnut Street with the undercover cops, following him into the city. I have to lose these turkeys, he thought.

“You hear that?” Monica asked.

“Helicopter. Get the fuck outta here,” he said, focusing on the strong whirling sound of helicopter blades. “I don’t know where that bird is, but at the next street, I am turning. You better jump the fuck out with the guns and drugs. The stop is going to be fast, so you better move quick.”

“You sure, Daddy,” she asked, looking back at the mayhem behind them. “I can take this case for you. It ain’t ‘bout shit. This’ll be my first case so not much is going to happen to me.”

“Naw, fuck dat. I can’t send you to jail for me. We are both going to be safe, ‘cause when I turn, you gone hop out,” he said, spinning the corner at 22nd Street. Screeching to a halt, he yelled, “Go...Go.” He took a deep breath, pulled a gun from his waist, and sat it on his lap.

She complied.

Within three seconds, he was pushing the BMW back to full throttle.

At Market Street, he flipped a left, cutting off a SEPTA bus, and screamed at the driver. He couldn’t tell if the Philadelphia PD homicide detectives or the Feds were on him, but he did know that he wasn’t going back to jail. One of the cars pulled next to him, and he fired wildly in the car’s direction.

He was lucky.

The bullets crashed through the window, smacked the driver in the face, and forced the car into an unpleasant collision with the Philadelphia Electric Company’s headquarters. Looking to avoid the out of control Crown Victoria, another cop car lost control of the vehicle and plowed into a New York bound double-decker Megabus Express.

Crossing the Market Street Bridge, Hamma planned to bend a right at the first light, but the speed that he was going forced him to miss the turn. He wanted to keep his life, so he didn’t chance it. He quickly slowed the car, made a U-turn, blowing past the three other cars pursuing him. Taking the BMW back up to its full tempo, Hamma tried to make the light to re-cross the Market Street Bridge. Trying to take the red light and the foot of the bridge, he collided with another car, forcing him to rotate into a tornado-spin. His car slammed into one of the eagle statues on the bridge and refused to turn back over.

Sharp pains shot through his body, Hamma opened the driver’s door and threw himself out of the car. Stepping into the street, his head bled profusely, as he struggled to stand up right.

“On the fuckin’ ground,” a man yelled at Hamma with a gun trained on him.

Another yelled, “Freeze, mutha fucka, or I will blow ya fuckin head into the Schuylkill River.”

Hamma’s sensibilities screamed at him. It was over. He had plenty of bodies under his belt and knew that he was destined for the death penalty. Why waste the tax payers money? He wasn’t going for it. He had always planned to hold court in the streets and not a courtroom.

With his limited energy, he raised his Glock and let it go.

“Fire!” a cop yelled, spitting slugs in Hamma’s direction before he could fully get the one-syllable word out.

Despite the blood pouring from his head, Hamma popped one of the cop’s melon, before he was shot twelve times.

On the ground, his only concern was that he missed most of his targets. He smiled, took his final breath, and then pissed himself. He was everything that he had lived up to be—a gangsta, goon, and a goblin.

CHAPTER 50

Amilli moaned, leaning over the steering wheel of Lamar’s Porsche. She bounced merrily up and down on his pole. After every time that she went up, she slammed herself back down on his manhood. Lamar was leaned back in the driver’s seat with a hand on Amilli’s waist, guiding her up and down. His other hand groped her exposed breasts. This was why he loved her: she was sophisticated and a freak all wrapped up in one body.

“Yeah, this my pussy, ain’t it? Who pussy is this?” Lamar asked, quivering and throwing her up and down on his instrument. He forced her love box to make music.

“This pussy is yours, baby,” she said, adding, “Ah...ah. I’m cummin’.” She shot her juices all over Lamar’s waist and dick, and then quickly jumped up and took him in her mouth, cleaning up their shamble. She licked his balls and the sides of his dick, before sliding his pole deep into her mouth, giving him sloppy head.

“I am cumming, too, baby.” Lamar cupped the back of her head and forced her to slurp all of the left over nut out of him.

“Damn, you the best girl. Suck dat dick, whore—” he whispered before shadows surrounded the car.

“FBI, don’t fuckin’ move,” an armed officer screamed, as he and other agents surrounded Lamar’s car.

Amilli popped her head up and shook her head. “They’re every where Lamar.

“I know, babe,” he said, staring at the agents. “You may as well keep sucking. Let me get another nut. Might be ya last one from me.”

“You’re shot the fuck out. This is so embarrassing.”

“Fuck them. They wish they were getting the bomb as head every day like me,” Lamar said, thinking of those three letters that made the hair on the back of his neck stand: FBI. He threw his hands up, as an officer swung the door open.

Guns were pointed at him from every angle.

“Get the fuck out of the car, and keep your hands in the air,” FBI Agent Agent Brown said, forcing a frown to form on Lamar’s face. “Don’t look so confused now. You’re busted like a mutha fucka.” Agent Brown said, and added, “God I couldn’t wait to see your face.”

Lamar couldn’t believe what was happening. How the fuck did these niggas let a cop infiltrate our projects? Bartram-fucking-village. Now, I know what clown-ass Slam felt like when his crew lost his block to me.

“Put the dick away, buddy,” another agent said, “before we charge you with possession of another gun.”

Throwing his head back and closing his eyes, Lamar stuffed his pole into his pants, stepped out of the car, and was handcuffed. Agent Brown read him his rights, and said, “Your charges look like this: Continual Criminal Enterprise 848(a); Murder 1111; Robbery 1951—”

“Man, who the fuck I rob?”