Chapter 8 #2
“A lot of fucking money,” Ahmeek mumbled under his breath.
It was almost unbelievable. Imposter syndrome was a real thing.
He knew how to get money. He had taken to the streets like a duck to water at an early age, but the scale of this thing was incredible.
Ambition could be blinding. He had seen niggas get sent away for life for a quarter brick; he wasn’t sure if the reward of this level was worth the risk.
Not that it mattered. He was being roped in whether he liked it or not.
The play has to be flawless for me to make it out of this shit, Ahmeek thought.
He was in over his head, but not in over his ability.
He would have felt a lot better if he weren’t in the shit without his people.
He was in a new land, and he was a new face in town.
He would have to earn his respect out of the mud, which meant violence was to come.
He was one man without soldiers, without a team.
He would need to build one, but trust wasn’t for sale; it was earned.
Messiah and Isa were his brothers. At odds or not, he knew them inside and out.
He knew their strengths, their weaknesses.
He knew their track record. Doing this without them felt strange, wrong even.
The Crew had put in work for years to get to this point, and he was about to embark on this journey alone.
It just didn’t settle right in his chest. Despite the rift between him and Messiah, there was still a sense of loyalty that remained.
A large piece of his identity was entwined in the three-way brotherhood he had left behind.
“An empire,” Hak stated.
“Indeed, it is,” Ahmeek responded as he watched the semi-trucks and workers assemble around them. It was like they were reporting for a shift. The freedom the reservation granted made laws irrelevant. “I can’t focus on this until I tie the loose ends, though.”
“Of course. This way. We’ve moved her,” Hak stated.
Ahmeek followed Hak into one of the warehouses, and they bypassed teams of men, preparing his new kingdom.
“Much more sophisticated than the blocks in Flint, right?” Hak chortled.
“If only sophistication was enough to help you take hold of the city,” Ahmeek shot back. Ahmeek never wanted it to be misunderstood that he knew his value. Hak needed Ahmeek’s street savvy. He needed his abrasiveness. He needed someone from the mud to bring some order to this town.
“An empire needs political power and brute strength,” Hak replied.
“Politics, war, religion,” Ahmeek stated.
“Politicians govern the land; warriors protect it; faith gives the people who follow it something to believe in.” An old head had taught him that a long time ago, and it had stuck with him over the years.
Ahmeek said nothing more because saying too much could be detrimental, too.
He followed Hak to a deserted portion of the building and down a set of metal stairs.
“What’s down here?” Ahmeek asked.
“Bomb shelter, soundproof and empty. Nothing in there but a table, your devices of choice, and a wall with chains for restraints,” Hak responded. “You can have your way.”
“Good,” Ahmeek stated. “Has she eaten?”
“We’ve done what was asked,” Hak confirmed as he went into his pocket and handed Ahmeek the key to Christiana’s restraints.
Ahmeek had given the order to withhold food and water.
Christiana was likely starving by now. He needed her in a state of desperation.
Hak removed the key and unlocked the door.
Ahmeek entered the room, and Christiana sat, back against the wall, on the floor.
He didn’t enjoy torture, especially the torment of a woman, but Christiana was no ordinary lady.
She held power and had used that power to leverage Morgan’s freedom over the years.
He observed her as she stared harshly up at him, peering up through messy bangs. Her disheveled hair giving her a crazed look. She was starving. He could see the despair in her eyes.
“For the record, I don’t want to do this to you,” Ahmeek said as he pulled a chair from the corner of the room, its steel legs scraping the concrete, creating a nail-biting soundtrack to his impending trial.
“I’m not a parent, so I don’t pretend to know the lengths one would go to protect their child.
You raised a woman beater, a rapist. A killer.
And you protected him. You enabled him. What kind of woman does that?
” Ahmeek sat the chair directly across from Christiana.
Christiana looked up at him, and Ahmeek felt the hair lift on the back of his neck. Her aura was sinister, even at a disadvantage. He had to give it to her. She was a tough old bitch. He saw the fear in her, but he also saw the unyielding spirit of a woman who didn’t regret one thing.
“The same way your mother does it,” Christiana shot back.
The comment ripped the judgment from Ahmeek’s psyche.
“You’re a killer, too. You took my boy from me, didn’t you?
Or was it the other one? The twins’ father?
That Morgan sure does get around, doesn’t she?
” Christiana stated. “Either way, a mother doesn’t choose what or who her child becomes.
Still, it’s our job to protect what we birth. ”
“He raped her. He beat her,” Ahmeek was seething at the comparison. “Me and your son will never be the same.”
“In every kingdom across every land, royal men have taken spoils and disciplined their women. It’s the price of admission.
Morgan chose him. Once you choose to enter high society, there’s an etiquette.
She didn’t follow it. In fact, she hasn’t followed it since the day you came to London.
She was fine before you. Bash was smitten.
She and her children were treated with reverence before you corrupted her.
Her mistreatment is your fault, truly. Don’t you think? ” Christiana asked.
“I’ll tell you what I think,” Ahmeek said calmly.
“I think you thought she was some little ghetto girl from the hood that you were saving, and that she would be so grateful that she would just go along. You thought she would be easily controlled. She never needed your name or your power. She comes with her own. Now, let’s talk facts.
You can die down here, or we can get you a meal, get you cleaned up, and you can call off the search for your husband and son. ”
“They’re coming after Morgan, aren’t they?” Christiana said, cackling. “Of course, they are. We’re royal. I’ll die down here in this hole before I save her.”
Ahmeek nodded and stood, removing his jacket and unbuttoning his sleeves as he rolled them to his elbows.
“Okay,” he said more to himself than to her. “We do this the hard way.”
He went into his pocket, grabbed Christiana by a fistful of hair, and dragged her, kicking and screaming, across the room until he reached a lever in the center of the floor. He lifted the trap door in the floor, a small 5 x 5 opening.
“It’s a hundred degrees under the foundation of this building. Let’s see how long you last,” Ahmeek said.
He stuffed Christiana inside like he was stuffing a top-load washing machine and cut off her screams as he slammed the opening shut. Hak entered the room as Ahmeek caught his breath.
“She’s a stubborn old broad, isn’t she?” Hak commented.
“She’ll break, or she will be buried out this bitch,” Ahmeek stated. “Her choice.”
“She won’t last more than 15 minutes down there. It’s like being trapped in a car in the summertime, but ten times worse,” Hak explained.
Ahmeek pulled the chair to the center of the room and took a seat. He set a timer on his phone. “I’ll pull her out every 14, if necessary,” Ahmeek stated unapologetically.
“That will feel like a constant loop of suffocation,” Hak stated. “It’s psychological torture.”
“She decides when it ends,” Ahmeek finished.
He hated to go this deep off the edge. It could get dark in the trenches, but every street nigga who was really living that life needed the ability to be ruthless.
Some men never made it back to the light once they went dark.
Once bodies dropped, and once blood was spilled, it was hard to revert to innocence.
A nigga’s likelihood of murder determined his longevity in the business of the streets.
If opposition weren’t afraid to cross you, you would never establish dominance.
This was what it took to ensure the safety of his loved ones, but he would be lying if he said it didn’t take away a bit of his humanity every time.
Every single time he had to do the unthinkable, it desensitized him a little more.
It was why he chose his gunplay wisely. It was why he was known for being fair in the streets.
On a good day, he was known to show mercy, but he had his triggers.
His mama, his crew, his father’s name, and most recently, since falling in love with Morgan Atkins, her…
always her. Once those things were violated, or threatened in any way, he had no problem sacrificing pieces of his soul.
If torture was what it took to get Christiana to see things his way, then so be it.