did want to put an end to the violence.
“A’ight, O.G. Trik.” Gutter nodded. “Me and mines is gonna bail back to the ’rib and try to put the pieces of this puzzle together.”
“G, you know if anybody finds out I put you on the trail…”
“Don’t worry about that, Trik. I ain’t gonna throw you under the bus for what you did here today.”
Trik laughed. “Young general, this ain’t got nothing to do with worrying, it’s about finally saying enough is enough. I’ve been killing and watching homeys die longer than most of these niggaz been alive. Set love used to be about something bigger than the turf, but somewhere along the line the game got twisted. If I don’t never go to another funeral, it’ll still be one too many. I’m tired of this shit, homey, you feel me?”
Gutter thought about his own life and what it was amounting to. “Yeah.” He nodded. “I’m starting to,” he said, going back to join his soldiers.
“What’s good, cuz?” Snake Eyes asked, noticing the worried expression on Gutter’s face after speaking with Trik.
“Mount up, niggaz, we outta here,” Gutter addressed his crew.
“Fuck you mean y’all out of here? What about my brother?” Mongo demanded.
“As soon as we’re clear, Pudgy will be released,” Gutter told him, as he climbed behind the wheel of the Regal.
“So what’s up, Hoover and Swan cool or what?” Trik called after him.
Gutter smirked. “For the moment. But trip this, big homey, if what you told me was some bullshit, I’m gonna come through yo hood and kill you personally, but that’s after I stink your wife and anybody else in the house that’s old enough to vote.” With that being said, Gutter backed the car out of the lot and mashed to the highway.
“SO WHAT’S the business, nephew? We blasting on Swans tonight or some other fag-ass set?” Rahkim asked from the backseat.
“I’m still trying to figure it out,” Gutter told him. “Say, Unc, what you know about a slob Gunn blasted on back in the eighties?”
Rahkim laughed. “Shit, you know how many niggaz my brother done killed in the last twenty years? You’d be better off asking me who the mayor of Mexico City is.”
“Nah, this would’ve been different. From what I gathered from Trik this has to do with a grudge of some sort. Think on it, Unc, is there anything that Gunn could’ve done back then that somebody would’ve been willing to wait twenty years to retaliate?”
Rahkim was silent for a minute, going over the list of kills he knew about. Suddenly he recalled something that might be relevant. “Actually I do remember some shit, a real fucked-up situation that went down at the fair. The Hoovers got into it with some niggaz and they bitches from the 900s, which turned into a firefight. A bitch got shot while her kid was in the backseat of the car. Gunn didn’t know shorty was there at the time, but when he found out it had him fucked-up for a long time.”
“The Nines?” Gutter tugged at his beard. Gutter flipped through his mental rolodex of killers in California and found that the list was longer than he was comfortable with. Death was a rite of passage for the children of the Pacific Coast, same as peewee football for suburban kids. Though the 900 block Bloods weren’t the largest set, they had a reputation for brutality, but he still couldn’t think of one who would’ve been stupid enough to touch Gunn… then it hit him. One 900 block rider was just that fool.
“Major Blood,” Gutter hissed. For as long as he could remember Major Blood had been a thorn in his and Lou- Loc’s sides. Neither of them could ever figure why he was so hell-bent on giving them grief, but after hearing Trik’s and Rahkim’s tales it finally made sense. “The woman Gunn killed had to be Major Blood’s mother, or at least an aunt or some shit. He’s the shooter.”
“Major Blood?” Snake Eyes asked, his voice going up an octave. At the mention of the man’s name Snake Eye’s mental gang file popped open. Major Blood was a cross between Lou-Loc and Gutter, with a splash of Charles Manson. He had never met the man, but he knew of Major Blood and his exploits all too well.
“Oh, hell nah!” Rahkim slammed his fist into the door, rattling the windows. “That lil half-spic son of a bitch couldn’t have touched mine? Floor this bitch to Compton, Ken. On Hoover, I’m gonna smoke his ho ass and everybody close to him.”
“Oh, we gonna ride on them niggaz real proper, Unc, don’t worry about that. Before I leave California I’m gonna send Major Blood and his whole gang a great big fuck you. But the question still remains, where the fuck is he?” He was about to add to the question when his new cell phone vibrated. When he looked at the screen and saw the 646 area code he got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“ARRIVED AT destination,” the computerized voice of the navigation system informed them.
The residential block looked like something out of
“Family,” Mohammad breathed softly, leaving a bloody smear on the sleeve of her jacket. He slumped back down to the floor and seemed to go unnaturally still. Satin touched his neck and gave Sharell a sad look.
The one leading the pack had to be Anwar. She had never met him personally, but she knew he was a youthful-looking man and the dark-haired youngster approaching the X5 didn’t look to be a day over seventeen or eighteen. Behind him was a stocky brute, wearing black fatigues and the beginnings of a smile on his face. The last man in the group was tall, wearing a black kufi. His dark eyes looked concerned as he scanned the interior of the car. When they were right on top of the car she pulled Mohammad’s gun and aimed it out the window.
“You won’t be needing that, I am Anwar, prince of the Al Mukalla, I believe you know of me?” Anwar stopped, but didn’t back down from the gun. Sharell hesitated for a minute, but eventually lowered the gun and opened the door. The smiling boy-prince extended his hand and helped her from behind the wheel.
The bearded man, who was called Sharif, rushed to the backseat to attend Mohammad. He pulled him gently from the back of the car and placed him on the lawn. Ignoring his bloodstained clothes, Sharif placed his ear to Mohammad’s chest. He looked up from Mohammad to Sharell and asked, “How long?”
“A few minutes, if that,” Sharell said with tears now spilling from her eyes. Yet another life had been taken by Gutter’s personal war. Mohammad had sacrificed himself to protect her and she would make sure that he was honored properly. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said, barely above a whisper.
Sharif glanced at her, but didn’t reply. Instead he looked to Anwar with questioning eyes. Anwar turned to the stocky man, Roc, who shook his head in protest. There was some kind of conflict going on between the men, but Sharell didn’t know what it was.
“It was his wish and his right,” Sharif said defensively.
Anwar sighed. “Do what you must, Sharif, but do not let your promises interfere with your duties.”
Sharif nodded. He scooped Mohammad from the ground, and though the dead man clearly outweighed him, he did it as if he weighed little more than a child. As gently as a parent could, he lowered Mohammad into the backseat of a black sedan and got behind the wheel. “I’ll have someone here by sundown,” he called to Anwar, who didn’t bother to respond. The sedan backed out of the driveway, and disappeared into the night.
“Let’s get you two in the house,” Anwar said to the frightened young women. Noticing that Sharell was still holding Mohammad’s bloody gun, he offered to take it.
“No, thanks,” Sharell said, making sure a round was chambered. “I think I’ll hold on to this for a while.”
chapter 32
GUTTER PACED the front yard of Gunn’s house, sucking a blunt and swigging a beer. He had always been a notorious pothead, but it seemed like he’d taken to drinking more since he’d been in California. It was probably because of the increased stress he’d found himself under being back on the West.
