she easily dodged and pinned his blade hand, smashing it against the floorboards, fingers dug into his wrist, until he released it. He raised his knee into her side, a glancing blow, but it knocked her enough to allow him to scrabble from under her. She fell heavily onto her back.
Scrambling to his feet, they circled each other in the dim light. The room was cramped and its shadows pressed in close from the odd outcroppings of the layout. Mulysa feinted with his knife, now ready, hoping to draw her into another impulsive mistake. Tristan smirked, thinking him a man hiding behind his penis, one which was smaller than he realized. The crunch of trash underfoot broke the tense silence. Mulysa might have had the superior muscle, but his was built by lifting weights and punching bags which couldn't hit back. Tristan's muscle had been formed strictly by hard living, a life of constant battle for each breath she took. If Mulysa had realized that, he was certain that with his bitch in hand, he was more than her superior. They continued to revolve around each other in their delicate dance when Tristan slipped on a plastic bag. She flailed her arms to recover her balance, but Mulysa seized the opportunity to pounce on her with a killing stroke. She parried the blow as best she could, twisting her body out of the blade's trajectory, but the tip of the blade still pierced her side. Mulysa moved faster than she expected. He turned around with a high elbow to her jaw. They tussled through the room, with only the sounds of the grunts of absorbed punches heard. Bodies still entwined, neither getting an upper hand on the other, they slammed into the wall.
Still in close quarters, blood seeping from her wound, Tristan grappled for his blade hand once more. Her teeth ground against each other in a mad smile as she exerted the last of her strength into squeezing his wrist. Something popped in her grasp and the blade fell. Mulysa stifled a cry. Tristan head-butted him, which sent him to the floor. She bounded on top of him, grabbing for anything within reach. Handfuls of donut wrappers and moldy paper, and crammed them into Mulysa's mouth. She pressed a wadded up back of McDonald's into his face, blindly lashing out at him.
Heavy thuds at the door halted them.
'Police!' a voice cried.
Mulysa let go first only enough to check Tristan's reaction. If she flexed, they'd be right back fighting. But Tristan didn't move and allowed Mulysa to back away a few steps. He smoothed out his clothes, lip bleeding, fumed, trying to catch his breath.
'Don't make me go all P Diddy on you, nukka. Send you to Haughville and have you fetch me some breast milk from a Korean woman to wash down some donuts from Long's.'
'This shit ain't over.' Tristan turned toward the window. 'Deuces.'
The Martindale-Brightwood neighborhood had been designated a sensitive area. Riots broke out a few years back, over what no one quite remembered. However, the Black Panthers were active here, as was the Nation of Islam, and various church leaders. Each with good intentions, to help those forgotten by the system, give voice to those whose cries went unheard. To draw attention to the plight of their brothers and sisters. Each out to save their community… and in the process, either make names for themselves or prove their continuing relevance. King, Dred, and Rellik gathered at Good Hope. News of Colvin's effrontery traveled the vine quickly. A crisis was inevitable. Though neither Dred nor Rellik signed on with King, they were curious to see how he'd manage to lead them. It was his test. They knew they couldn't send in their usual troops. Street-level soldiers were fine if Colvin was a street knucklehead encroaching on territory or this was a case of some other day-in-the-life bullshit. Once things got… supernatural, only a few were qualified. Or experienced enough. Judging from Rok's reaction to what was going on, his face a mix of skepticism and trepidation, they'd be lost out there on their own. Merle ushered Dred and Rellik inside, but Baylon lingered back, catching Dred's attention. King studied the poor wretch. He remembered his confident, flexing gait, built like a human Rottweiler with half-closed eyes as if bored. Not this thinned, ashy creature whose eyes were cratered within wrinkles.
'What happened to you, man?' King asked.
'After Michelle, you left me. Cut me out of your life.' Baylon still felt things. He always had. His momma always said that was his problem: he felt things too deeply. It was why she believed he wasn't cut out for this here game. Every time he saw King, he wanted to apologize, to beg for forgiveness for fucking everything up. Nothing was the same: not the crew, not the block, not the family, not him. Everything got so disconnected. Everyone had to go their own way if only to not be reminded of what had been. Or what could have been. 'It was too much.'
'We were like brothers.'
'That's why it hurt me so deep.'
'You should've said that.'
'I was a different man then.'
'Look at you now. Out to save the whole hood. Everyone's redeemable, right?'
'Right.'
'Even me?'
'Even… you. But you can't just say 'I'm sorry' as if that's all there is to it. You've got to change your ways. Prove that you've changed. Make up for some of the hurts you've caused. You may not make things right, but it's a start.'
'What about us?'
'I done told you, too much time's passed. What we were…'
'Aces.'
'We won't be again. Different time. Different place. Different man.'
'But, if I could show I've changed…'
'We'll see. One step at a time.' King didn't want to extinguish all hope, especially when his tenor reeked of wanting things… the way they used to be.
Ambition was the headiest of drugs. In its name, Dred was ready to sacrifice them — Baylon, Griff, Night, and Rellik — to get their power and reign supreme in the Egbo Society. Had no problem leaving Baylon to take the fall for it all. From there, with the power and mantle of authority, he would demand a place among the dons. Craddock. Bedivere. Howell. Fat old men whose time had passed. The dons collected tribute far removed from the street. He would be the young blood, the vision, necessary to take them to the next level.
Rellik studied Dred and thought about Wayne. In them he saw his future and alternate present. In Dred, he knew all the life would offer him. His days would be no more than chasing dollars, fending off takeovers, living life on a razor edge which threatened to slit his throat if he fell wrong. The life of the gun: putting down enemies only to have new ones rise up. It never ended and the thought exhausted him.
On the other hand, Wayne's was a life he couldn't imagine having. One equally fraught with peril, but buoyed by friendship. Loyalty. Trust. Life. Concepts all too alien to his reality. Rellik wanted to die. More like he was ready for it. He all but said goodbye to Wayne the last time they talked.
'You tippin' out?' Wayne asked. The summit conversation still heavy on his mind.
'I'm done, Wayne,' Rellik said. 'Ain't got the heart for it no more.'
'Words like that could get you killed out here.'
'I got it handled.'
'Where you going to go?' Wayne grabbed his arm lightly. 'I got a couch.'
'Looking out for your big brother? I got a place in mind. It's OK.' He hugged Wayne then broke free.
Tired of the killing, tired of the death, tired of the senselessness, Rellik knew he'd never be free of this life because he was in it too deep. No one would just let him out. Those under him would take him out to replace him. Those above him couldn't just let him out as a free agent. He knew too much, knew where too many bodies were buried. Ride or die or not, Rellik wouldn't be trusted. He didn't want to die crying for his mama like most men did in the end. He just wanted to go home.
'Colvin done lost his Goddamned mind,' Rellik shouted.
'So it's begun,' Merle said.
'What do we know about him?' King asked.
'He one of them Baltimore niggas,' Dred said.
'He East Coast?' King asked.
'Naw, Baltimore Avenue. East side. Three-O Baltimore, forty-second and Post, tenth Street Dime Life. You know how they run.'
'Just as soon split your wig as say please,' Rellik said.
'Happy trappin' and gun slappin',' Merle said.
