Chapter Twelve
Ricky sat stone still.
Satan raised his head. Listened. Then looked to his master.
He heard it too.
Someone was here.
Ricky didn’t have to wonder who it was. He knew.
He’d been expecting this visit all evening.
His aunt had gone to her niece’s house in Scottsboro. She would stay there until this was over. It was best. Things were going to get ugly around here. No place for an old woman.
This was his trouble. He would deal with it.
He was prepared. Satan was at his feet and his Glock lay on the table next to him.
Let the bastard come.
The knob on the front door turned with a creak. Ricky sat back in his aunt’s ragged old recliner and waited.
No fear. That was the way to handle this shit.
If the son of a bitch smelled fear, it would all be over.
The door flew open, banged against the wall.
The King stormed in, his bodyguards right behind him like a trio of shadows, falling into place around him as he stopped in the middle of the room. The King never went anywhere without his unholy trinity—his three most trusted men.
Ricky knew better than to stand or even move.
“What’s up, Ty?” Satan trembled with the tension of holding back his primal instincts.
“Still,” Ricky cautioned the loyal animal.
He had a series of one-word commands for Satan.
The animal obeyed him faithfully. He knew if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be eating for a day or two.
That was the key with these beasts. Keep them half-starved and they did whatever you wanted.
Tyrone sent a disgusted look at the dog, then rammed Ricky with a piercing glare. “You skating on thin ice, Ricky boy. I am not playing with you no more.”
“I didn’t start this, Tyrone.” Ricky’s fingers itched to reach for the gun, but that would be a bad mistake. If he showed the slightest indication of aggression, even twitched, he was a dead man.
“That’s the truth.” Tyrone stepped closer, settled his tall frame into a chair. “But you going to end it.”
Tyrone Nash was three years older than Ricky’s twenty-eight. He’d started out running drugs for anyone who needed a fast pair of legs. He’d cheated and killed his way to the top. One dead tweaker at a time.
He called himself the King. Dressed like a rap star, with all the bling to prove either claim.
He’d earned or stolen the respect or fear of every single human being living in the village.
Most of the cops in the west precinct were scared of him.
He ran all the sex workers this side of the Parkway, owned some portion of the drug business in the whole city. And nobody, nobody dared to cross him.
Old Tyrone was slick as shit and as hard and cold as pure ice. He didn’t care about anyone but himself. He’d just as soon kill you as look at you.
And he was looking at Ricky right now.
“Whatever you say, Ty. I got no beef with you. I know my place, man.”
Tyrone smiled, his teeth a brilliant white contrast to that black-as-night skin. “But Ricky, my man, I got a beef with you. I got a dead bitch in my territory and another smart-ass bitch digging around in my business. I can’t get it right in my head why you let this shit happen.”
Hell. Ricky swallowed back the fear clawing its way up the back of his throat.
“I tried to keep that crazy Shelley under control, but Braddock was putting ideas in her head.” Ricky laughed, the sound as pathetic as a scared little girl’s.
“I’m pretty sure she thought she was gonna help take you down or something. ”
Ricky didn’t blink, didn’t even breathe for the next few seconds. Ty stared long and hard at him. Like he was trying to see the lie. Ricky wasn’t stupid. No way was he gonna lie to the guy . . . not to his face, anyway.
“That’s why she’s dead,” Ty said at last.
Ricky nodded. “That’s why she’s dead.” Shelley should’ve known better than to mess with the King.
“What did you tell Braddock?”
Ricky had been prepared for Ty to demand a full report. The King had moles all up in HPD, but none who could get close to Braddock. Tyrone hated Braddock. That dude was living on borrowed time.
“I told him I went over there that night,” Ricky admitted. “That me and Shelley had a big fight and then I left. That’s all there was to tell.” Ricky shrugged. “That’s what he got.”
Tyrone propped his elbows on the chair arms and steepled his fingers like he was going to pray or something. “What did you tell him about me?”
Shit.
“Why would I tell him anything about you?”
Tyrone shot to his feet.
Satan growled.
Pistols leveled around the room.
Ricky froze . . . didn’t even breathe.
“You messing with me, boy?”
Ricky shook his head. “No way, Ty.”
Hearing his master’s distress, Satan issued another low warning growl.
“That fat shit growls at me again I’ll put one right between his bug eyes.”
Ricky pulled back on Satan’s leash, drawing the animal closer to his leg. “Silence.” The animal instantly went quiet. Ty’s bodyguards shifted their aim from Satan to Ricky.
A twinge of fear sliced through him. “He asked me about you, of course. But I didn’t tell him shit. I just kept saying I didn’t know nothing about no King.”
Sweat beaded on Ricky’s forehead. If he’d been a praying man, this would’ve been the time to do it. The silver crucifix he wore burned his skin as if reminding him that it was never too late to start a convo with his Maker.
“Braddock didn’t believe you. He forced the issue, didn’t he?”
Ty reached up and stroked the long thin scar on his cheek. No one knew where the scar had come from. No one had the balls to ask.
“I . . .” Ricky held on to that I-dunno expression. “He didn’t exactly say he didn’t believe me.”
Tyrone narrowed his gaze at Ricky. “But he asked you specific questions, didn’t he?”
What the hell? Did the guy have someone on Braddock now? Or maybe Ty had finally gotten to that tight-ass partner of Braddock’s.
“Sure.” Ricky nodded like a damn bobblehead doll. “He asked all kinds of questions. What was the deal between you and Shelley? Did you order a hit on her? Had I ever witnessed you ordering a murder or conducting any other business?”
He couldn’t tell him about the other question. Definitely not that one. If Tyrone found out Braddock had offered Ricky immunity to give up what he knew, he was a dead man. Tyrone wouldn’t care about the answer Ricky had given; he’d kill him on principle just to cover his ass.
“And what, pray tell, did you say to all those prying questions?”
“I told him I didn’t know jack shit about you or what you do. I told him I got my own business to take care of.”
Tyrone moved his head side to side. “You think Braddock’s a fool?”
Sweat slid down Ricky’s jaw. Every answer, right or wrong, dug the hole a little deeper. “No. I . . . I mean, yeah. He’s a fool if he thinks he can come over here messing with the King.” Please let that be the answer Ty wants to hear.
“Braddock,” Tyrone said, his jaw throbbing with tension, “has a reason for getting in my business.”
Ricky nodded, though he didn’t have a clue where this was headed.
“It’s personal. Between me and him. But it don’t matter. He’s been trying to get in my shit for three years and he don’t seem to get the message I’m sending him. Now you gonna make sure he gets the message. Loud and clear.”
Holy hell.
“How . . .” Ricky cleared his throat. Felt his balls draw up into his belly. “How do you want me to do that?”
“You play his game until I tell you different.”
“But . . .” What the hell was he talking about? He couldn’t know Braddock wanted him to roll over. “What game?”
“That, Ricky boy, is for you to find out. And, while you’re at it, you’ll keep that doctor bitch off my ass. Make sure she gets the message I’m sending her way.”
Just like that, Tyrone made his exit. His bodyguards glared at Ricky before doing the same.
When the door banged shut, Ricky sucked in a ragged breath.
He was so screwed.
If he got into the middle of this war between Braddock and Tyrone, he would end up just like Shelley.
If her smart-ass sister didn’t know it already, she’d better figure it out in a hurry.
Shelley was a casualty of war.