Chapter 33
Louisiana heat hit different in the daytime.
Shit was so thick it made the air feel like it was moving slow.
It didn't stop life on the farm, though.
Soft moos blended with higher-pitched neighs as cows and horses ambled slowly in the farm's huge pastures, the lush, bright green grass not yet baked by the shimmering sunlight.
Somewhere closer to the house, a truck roared to life loud enough for the sound to carry across the property.
The raucous laughter of farmhands spilled out of the open windows of the big barn.
I inhaled deeply, enjoying the scents of smoky barbecue and sweet honeysuckle that permeated the heavy air.
“This is PawPaw's real favorite child,” she'd announced.
The old Chevy had sat looking better than some brand-new cars. It was Matador Red with chrome trimmings polished to perfection. The interior was immaculate. No doubt, the car was beautiful.
And dead.
The engine never turned over, no matter how many years her grandfather worked on it.
“He still think he one part away from getting it running. That man been saying that since I was little,” she told me.
I remembered circling the car slowly while she leaned against the workbench watching me and smiling.
“You like it?” she’d asked.
“Yeah.”
“He don’t let nobody touch it.”
“But you brought me here.”
That smile had spread across her face slowly.
“Mm-hmm.”
I should’ve known then I was done for.
When I came back to Louisiana to ask for her hand, I had the Chevy quietly transported to a mechanic in the DMV nicknamed Rogue. Maxim trusted her with impossible restorations and expensive toys.
Theory still didn’t know.
Her grandfather damn near cried cussing everybody out when the truck hauled it off the property. Now the empty space where the Chevy used to sit held Kemp’s bleeding ass instead.
I shrugged. Life be funny like that.
He sat on the concrete with his hands zip-tied behind his back and sweat rolling down his face.
Prime’s people had picked him up less than an hour ago outside some apartment complex near the edge of town.
Apparently, he had spent the entire ride expressing shock that we'd grabbed him.
I drew down on this nigga the first day I met him behind my wife, and he still didn't get it.
Now, he kept glancing around the shed trying to look tougher than he was.
That shit wasn't working. Juvie sat in a folding chair eating the Millers' Farm-grown pecans out of a paper bag, and Mikhail stood beside him, eyes sweeping the room.
Ajani sat in an old rolling chair near the wall while his partners Braeden and Prime occupied the doorway looking like very expensive, very deadly security.
Kemp swallowed hard as he looked at all of us.
“So, this... what?” he snapped finally. “Y’all just kidnapping niggas in broad daylight now?”
“Nah,” Juvie replied immediately. “This an intervention.”
Braeden nodded seriously. “You definitely need help.”
Prime folded his arms. “Unfortunately, you resisting our generous support.”
Kemp looked irritated instead of scared at first, which may have impressed me a little. Then I punched him in his mouth… I did say a little.
His head snapped sideways hard enough to spray blood across concrete. The shed went quiet except for Kemp's low groan. I flexed my hand once.
“You approached my wife.”
He spit blood near my shoes and laughed weakly. “Nigga, I talked to her. Dang, she too good to even—”
I hit him again. Juvie let out a low whistle.
“Damn. You just said fuck de-escalation or calm interrogation, huh?”
Ajani smiled. “Note to us: do not send Targen to diplomatic meetings.”
“His father tried that once,” Mikhail offered. “It did not go very well.”
Kemp fell over onto one elbow, breathing hard.
“Crazy ass Russian niggas really think y’all untouchable,” he hissed.
“Wait. I'm only part Russian,” Juvie corrected politely.
Mikhail raised a brow. “Which part is that?”
Juvie mugged him. “So, you gon' get in front of people and act like you didn't just tell me, ‘You are incredible brother, Julien Reed.’”
Mikhail shook his head. “I said to you, ‘You are incredible bother, Julien Reed.’”
Juvie grabbed his chest. “Damn. That hurt. But I still claim my Russian heritage proudly. Papa Sergei is working on my adoption. Soon as I'm the youngest Sidorov brother, bet I fire yo' big heartless ass,” he charged.
“Juvie?” I said, crouching in front of Kemp slowly.
“Huh?”
“You never gon' be the youngest Sidorov brother.”
He sighed like he was so put up on. “Jealousy is so ugly on you, brat.”
I ignored him. “What kind of bitch ass nigga walks into a beauty supply store to talk shit to a woman?” I asked Kemp.
He sucked his teeth. “I remembered my girl asked me to pick up something. A nigga can't go run an errand? Damn! I ain't threaten nobody.”
“Mm-hmm.” I grabbed his jaw hard enough to make him wince. “Stop lying. You pitiful at it.”
“Man, fuck you.”
I smiled a little, then hit him in the stomach so hard he folded forward and gagged against the concrete.
“This interrogation lacks your usual finesse,” Mikhail observed.
I scowled at him. “You volunteering?”
“No. I prefer cleaner work.”
“Look at Misha, setting workplace boundaries,” Juvie said proudly.
Kemp coughed and shifted, trying to straighten up again. I let him. Then I punched him one more time. Blood dripped steadily from his mouth.
“You know what I don’t like?” I asked conversationally.
Juvie held up a hand. “Creamed corn. Remember that time–”
“Julien,” I snapped.
“Well, you asked,” he mumbled.
Kemp glared at me silently.
“Anyway, I don’t like you and any fucking thing you have to say in spaces connected to my wife. Whatever you have to say, you say to me,” I spat.
“I ain't got shit to say to–”
Ajani leaned forward slightly. “Fuck this. Who approached your family, maybe with the promise of an alliance?”
Kemp laughed bitterly, the sound slightly muffled by his swollen lips. “I'on know what you talking about and you don't either.”
“I know someone made Marguerite brave enough to send you running your mouth,” I said.
“My auntie ain't sent me nowhere.”
Braeden chuckled. “That's cute. You think you just lucked up hearing all that? You think you just happened to string together enough stuff to have a half ass story?”
Kemp stayed stubbornly quiet.
“Nah, nigga. I think it's no coincidence.
I think your aunt made sure you heard that she had an ally.
I think she spilled just enough to make you feel important.
You know why, Kemp? Cuz your auntie knows that a weak ass nigga like you, one, likes to feel important and two, can't hold ice water. She has no kids and let me guess... Chauncey is her favorite. And you... you are expendable. So, Chauncey is in a nice, padded room somewhere listening to Beethoven and eating applesauce while you out here in these streets being the sacrificial lamb.”
Several things flashed across his stupid ass face. Denial, worry, realization, fear, then anger. Still, he kept quiet.
I hit him again.
Juvie let out a long whistle. “Damn! That one had some feeling behind it.”
“It did,” Mikhail agreed calmly.
Kemp groaned and rolled partly onto his side.
“Wh-why would she want me to tell y'all?” he muttered finally.
“Because she's hoping to keep me off Chauncey's ass. She thinks your words will back up the shit we've already seen,” I said.
“Wow,” he replied under his breath, before laughing.
There was a long pause. I reached for an abandoned tire iron. Kemp's eyes widened.
“Aunt Marguerite b-been talking to people,” he finally whispered.
Ajani’s eyes narrowed as he rolled toward Kemp. “What people?”
Kemp hesitated. I grabbed him by the front of his shirt and slammed him backward against the concrete.
“Try that again,” I ordered.
“Russian people! Damn!” he snapped.
“What Russians?”
“I'on know names!”
I believed that part. Niggas like Kemp rarely got entrusted with important information. He was loud and reckless. He was the type useful for intimidating women and causing chaos, but nothing else. Marguerite was probably using him exactly the way she should.
Prime tilted his head slightly. “You not helping yourself.”
Kemp spat blood again before answering.
“We… we went to see her in Mississippi earlier this year. She had to take a meeting all of a sudden. I just so happened—”
Braeden scoffed. “Just so happened? Nigga, you nosier than a bitch. Prolly followed that lady.”
He glared but didn’t deny it. “I saw an old white dude with gold teeth. Inked-up everywhere. Nigga looked mean as fuck.”
Mikhail looked offended. “That tells us nothing. He sounds like some caricature of a Russian villain. How do we know this person is real?”
Shaking his head, Juvie sighed dramatically. “C’mon nigga. You gotta give us more. Did he seem mysterious? Did it rain over just his head, or did snow fall dramatically behind him? Like how you figure out he was the bad guy?”
Even Braeden smiled a little at that. Kemp just looked mad and frustrated that his anger meant nothing in this room.
“They knew about Theory. About the shit she lied—” he looked at my face, then swallowed hard.
“Said about Chauncey. They knew my auntie woulda been handled that bitch–” Another furtive glance.
“Ay, I'm sorry, but you gotta understand why my family don't like her.
Anyway, your family got involved. Aunt Marguerite is a lot of things, but she ain't no fool. She know when she outmatched.” A little smile curved his mouth then.
“But she also know how to make friends, make shit a little more even.
My family up here and in Mississippi went through a lot behind that shit.
People turned up they noses, didn't want to associate with us. They forgot who we was. My auntie put us in a position to remind these fake mothafuckas,” he gloated.
I crouched again in front of him.
“How long?” I quizzed.