Accepting that Nikia had robbed him, Lamar attempted to call her phone but she had it disconnected. Lamar instructed Amilli to take him to his home in Princeton, New Jersey. He found that Nikia had destroyed that home, too, and bleached all of his clothing and furniture. She had even torched his Q45 he’d bought for her. At this point, no one could stop him from killing her, not even Celebrity. He found his money stash and tossed the cash into trash bags, before throwing them into the car’s trunk.
On the ride back to Philadelphia, Lamar called a team meeting because things were out of control: Nikia took drugs, money, destroyed assets, and she had to die. Lamar took the trash bags full of money to Amilli’s apartment until he found a safe place for them.
Driving to the apartment to meet the crew, he called Oz to put him up on what was going on. He informed him that he would pay him out of his own pocket for the missing drugs. Lamar’s ticket came to a little over four hundred thousand, but Oz asked him to only cough up half. Customer loyalty discount, Oz had called it.
Twenty minutes later, Lamar was in the trap house and explained to his crew what he had discovered in Northeast and New Jersey.
“Damn, Chop. That bitch outta pocket. You better thank Allah that Amilli had the Porsche ‘cause the jawn woulda went up in flames, too,” Hamma said, shaking his head in disbelief.
Playing with the safety on his new gun, Lamar said, “Shorty, really gots to die. The bitch played with my paper. We’re not doing any more unnecessary shooting. It’s interfering with our paper, and that’s our main focus. It’s plain and simple, we get the drop, and then we lay shit the fuck out. I know this bitch-nigga, Slam, been taking the baby to daycare every day for the past few days.” He had caught Trap, Hamma’s, and Gunna’s undivided attention.
Since Gunna had been at the hospital to support him and gave him a new gun, Lamar had welcomed him back to the squad.
“Aight, so I’ma slide up on him as soon as he comes out from dropping ya daughter off,” suggested Hamma.
“Naw, Ham, I ain’t got no daughter,” Lamar said, slamming a fist on the table. “Slide up on him with the baby. Fuck that! I don’t want any ties with Nikia. She ran off with that work and sided with her father that ain’t never been there. Her father and daughter gettin’ killed gonna hurt her more than anything else I do.”
“So you want us to kill ya daughter?” Gunna said. “Man, you must be crazy.”
“I don’t have a fuckin’ daughter,” barked Lamar.
“Well, aight, then, the old nigga, Roc Wilda, been hanging with Slam, so I am assuming that he has to go?”
“You assume right,” Lamar said, smirking.
Trap replied. “Good, he’s gon’ be easy. I got the drop on his job.”
“It’s time to get real. Them niggas may try to blitz, and if they do, we gotta be on point,” Lamar said as the men got ready to disperse.
“We ready,” Trap insisted.
CHAPTER 45
Smoking Backwoods filled with sour diesel and haze, Hamma, Trap, and Gunna sat on the block chilling, waiting for Lamar’s command to move. They sat on the front lawn of their building having a good time cracking jokes and enjoying life. They didn’t even peep the car that coasted down the block at a slow creeping pace. The car reached a building away, and Hamma rushed off for cover with a duffle bag across his shoulder, storing an AK-47. The weed had him paranoid.
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.
