Chapter Six. Asad #2
“You sound like a bitch with all that whining.” I tilt my head, arching an eyebrow.
Eli smirks in return because he knows just like I do that ain’t no man ever put fear in my heart.
And just because they happen to be the leaders of the deadliest criminal families on this side of the country don’t mean shit to me.
They bleed red just like I do. “I have to meet all of them anyway, so it’s better to get it over with at one time.
And having them all together at my table is a show of power and authority they won’t be able to ignore.
Introduce them to the kind of man who’s now in charge of Cross.
And how that man ain’t no fucking Marcus Cross. ”
The thought of all I have planned has a warm slide of anticipation skimming through me.
“Just make sure you have security in place. Hire out if you need to. I’m sure they’re going to be bringing their own men to this dinner, and I won’t be outnumbered in my own house.
” Eli nods and takes out his cell. “And make sure you have someone to temporarily replace you for the evening. I need you at the table, too.”
Eli silently studies me for a moment. “You sure that’s where you want to announce this change?”
“What change?” I frown. “The will was just read last night. If muthafuckas assume shit, I can’t be responsible for their assumptions. Like I said, I’m not Marcus. I get to decide who my underboss and street bosses are. Hurt feelings ain’t got shit to do with me.”
“Even if those hurt feelings belong to your brother?”
“They family, but this is business.” I arch an eyebrow. “You saying you don’t want the position?”
Eli’s head jerks back. “The fuck? Be for re—shit!”
A blast ricochets like a nuclear boom outside of the vehicle, rocking it seconds before a hailstorm of bullets pings against the windows and side panels. The screams of metal against metal penetrate the nearly deafening and constant banging of guns.
With a curse, Tre swerves, and my shoulder crashes into the door, the shuddering impact singing up my arm, across my shoulder blade, and up the back of my neck.
The side of my head slams into the window.
Shoving off the interior panel, I brace a hand against the back of the passenger seat and another on the headrest behind me.
“You better keep this muthafucka on the road!” I bark.
If not for the Range Rover being completely bulletproof, we would’ve been fucked.
Tre nods, but I peep the throbbing at his temple and the bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face. Shit. If his bitch ass gets us caught up, he’s not gonna have to worry about catching some fucking bullets. I’ma kill him myself.
A swift but thorough glance out the window reveals a hot-ass mess.
The blast of horns and panicked screams fill the air, barely muffled by the glass separating us from the outside.
Cars attempt to swerve out of the way, but the thick choke of traffic and the other flustered and terrified drivers make that an impossibility.
Just feet from me, a Rogue slams into the rear of a Benz.
Shifting my attention away from the accident, I instead focus on the motorcycle edging up close to the Rover’s rear tire.
A dark blue Hellcat with heavily tinted windows attempts to box us in from the front.
Bet.
Turning to the door, I locate the button disguised to blend into the side panel.
I press my thumb to it, wait for the scanner to read my print, and then pull the panel down, revealing a store of weapons.
I grab my CZ Scorpion Evo 3 and SIG P365, tucking the smaller gun at my back.
A glance over shows me Eli has the other hidden compartment open, and he’s fastening an extended magazine to a Koch MP5.
“What you got?” I demand, shoving two more guns in my shoulder holsters.
“Bike and Altima right on our ass.”
Whoever sent these hittas after us wasn’t playing. Good thing I’m not either.
Rage and a hedonistic, fierce delight sing through my veins.
My mouth curls into a smile. Yeah, Marcus had been grooming me for years to one day replace him as head of his criminal empire.
But this shit? I lower the window and aim the CZ Scorpion at the rider with the black-and-red helmet who’s roaring up next to my side on a Kawasaki Ninja. I was born for this shit.
With one shot to the neck and another to the front tire, the biker crashes out. A car in back of him jerks to the right with a squeal of tires to avoid hitting him. But the car ends up running right over his body and the bike anyway.
Yeah, ain’t no coming back from that.
“One down,” I inform Eli just before jerking back as another volley of bullets sprays the side of the Rover.
Thank God for the bulletproof exterior or shit would be looking real different.
The Hellcat pulls up alongside us, and another hitta wearing a ski mask leans out the back window, firing a SIG MPX.
More bullets dance over the outside of the Range Rover.
“How many more?” I ask Eli, shoulders pressed between the backseat and the window.
“Just took out the muthafucka firing on us in the Altima. Still got the other motorcycle on our ass.”
“Got it.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see the Hellcat pull even with us and the gunman lean farther out, gun raised again. “Tre, brake.” When he doesn’t react, only glances at me in the rearview mirror with wide eyes, I shout, “Brake, gotdammit!”
His head bobs, and a second later, he complies.
The Range Rover skids to a stop, and the Hellcat shoots pass us, but it can only go so far in the LA traffic.
It brakes, wheels spinning, the acrid scent of burning rubber corrupting the air.
A cacophony of horns, screams, and the screech of metal and tires peppers the air, but I block it out, lowering my window farther down.
The Hellcat doesn’t get far, unable to turn left or right, blocked in by vehicles with frantic drivers.
Lifting my CZ Scorpion, I pop the gunman hanging out the window in the head, then take out the two tires on the driver’s side.
The car careens wildly as the driver tries to control it, but it’s too late for that.
He crashes into the other vehicles, and within seconds, a second motorcycle plows into the driver’s door, the rider flipping over the hood.
Everything in me demands I jump out of this car, head over to that Hellcat, and make sure there are no survivors. My hand fists the door handle, but I stop and inhale a deep breath. Too many witnesses. Nah, correction. Too many witnesses with cell phones and cameras.
“Aye, get us out of here,” I order Tre, raising my window.
Next to me, Eli breaks down his gun, and I return the CZ Scorpion and the SIG P365 back into the hidden compartment, replacing the panel. As soon as we get back to the office, I’ll have Eli get rid of all the weapons.
“The road is blocked in front of us—” Tre stammers.
“Bruh, if you don’t back this bitch up and get us the fuck up outta here,” Eli snaps. “I don’t care if you run into every gotdamn car in our way, do what he said. The fuck?”
Tre wastes no time throwing the gear in reverse and whipping the Rover in a sharp K-turn.
The big-body vehicle jolts as it smashes into cars behind it, triggering another round of screams and profanity from outside the car.
Then he spins the car around and barges his way across the street into the opposite flow of traffic.
Sirens blare in the near distance, but Tre hooks a right off the main road, taking us farther away from the site of the drive-by.
“Shit,” I hiss. Hiking my hips, I snatch my phone out of my front pocket and dial a familiar number.
As soon as it connects, I start talking.
“This is Asad Prince. You have officers on their way to a shots fired, drive-by call right now involving a black Range Rover, two motorcycles, and two more vehicles. PCH and Sunset Boulevard. Fix it.”
I hang up on the chief of police without waiting for his reply.
Fuck. I pinch the bridge of my nose. What the fuck?
I’d be lying if I said this was the first attempt on my life.
Shit, you can’t be in the line of business I’m in and not have people make it their business to snatch your soul.
But this? This shit was messy, too public.
Chief Miles can handle burying the police report and halting the investigation, but he can’t make the witnesses disappear.
Ro can scrub the internet of the videos posted, but erasing people’s minds? Impossible. So again … what the fuck?
Only one gotdamn day as boss and already a hit.
And right on the heels of Marcus being taken out?
Nah. This feels personal. But at the same time … it doesn’t.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I blindly stare out the window.
The bloodlust slowly ebbs, but the rage remains, roiling and clawing in my gut.
For some reason, a face of bold, slashing angles with a mouth composed of lush, damn near indecent curves and a sick-as-fuck slim-thick body flickers in front of my eyes like images flashed across a phantom movie screen.
Could it be her?
Could Ember be behind the attempt on my life?
A quiet voice warns me not to underestimate her just because she’s a woman.
That’s some Marcus-type thinking. Shit, some of the most brilliant bosses and deadliest killers I know are women.
It’s not about what she has between her legs.
That low whisper cautions me not to disregard the loathing I glimpsed in her gaze either.
Her hatred for me didn’t start with me forcing her to accept my “marriage proposal.” Hers is old, aged.
Like wine. The older it gets, the more potent and intoxicating.
Maybe now is just when she’s decided to finally pop the cork on it, let it breathe.
It could be the timing of today’s drive-by was just a coincidence with my appearance at her house.
Love. Hate. Lust. Greed.