Born to Die

by Dorian Sykes

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

A group of friends navigates the trenches of Detroit, doing anything it takes to get ahead.

It’s anything but "business as usual" when growing up on the unforgiving streets of Highland Park. In a small, crime-plagued neighborhood located within the heart of Detroit, any and everything goes when a group of childhood friends fights to survive and make it out of the hood. Nothing is off limits, including selling drugs, scamming, and death to those who stand in their way.

Release date: May 27, 2025

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Lil’ Keith and Marcus’s latest victim was a Nigerian man, well-dressed in a business suit, who looked to be in his mid-fifties. They came up on him late one evening getting out of this white Mercedes-Benz 420 on a deserted street within the Lake Chateau Estates community, an affluent section just on the outskirts of New Orleans. They had been stalking the vic’s mini-mansion from the shadows of a large cluster of bushes three houses down, where they lay in silence for hours, determined to wait out their prey. He was late, but Lil’ Keith and Marcus were seasoned when it came to the murder game. They’d wait him out all night until sunrise if need be. They’d done it before. Murder was their hustle. Killing came naturally to them; it was one thing they were good at.

As the man pulled into the driveway, Marcus snatched his hoody over his dreads, clutched his chopper, then nudged Lil’ Keith to be on point. They watched the man exit his vehicle and walk over to the trunk, where he lifted two black briefcases.

“Let’s go around,” Marcus said in a whisper. He and Lil’ Keith slid out from the bushes in lockstep. The vic cast a worried glance over his shoulder, locking eyes on the two black figures rushing toward him. It seemed like the call of death. After a few more quick glances, the vic neglected the house altogether and made a run for his life, cutting across the street with both heels touching his ass.

“Fuck,” growled Marcus. He had a feeling the nigga was going to run on them. They always do when they see that stick in hand.

Lil’ Keith and Marcus gave chase. They found the man at the end of a dead-end alleyway, regretting his turn. The vic frantically searched wide-eyed for an out but was doomed by the ten-foot cement wall sealing his fate. Feeling their presence, the man suddenly spun around, his loafers sounding like a match striking against the summer pavement as he backstepped his way into the wall, his final resting place. In a last attempt for respite, he offered up the two briefcases in exchange for his life.

“Take ’em, please. Just don’t kill me,” he pleaded with tears welling in his eyes. “I’ll give you anything. Just please.”

Without answering, Marcus and Lil’ Keith simultaneously upped their twin Russian AK-47s and took aim at the man’s frame. His final pleas were muffled by the rapid gunfire from the two assault rifles. The first burst of rounds knocked a bloody gray patch from the man’s dome, sending him crashing against the alley’s concrete. Together, they stood over him and emptied both 30-round clips, as ordered.

Through the thick cloud of gun smoke, Marcus looked down at their work. All it takes is to be on the murder scene of an AK-47 just once, and you’ll understand why they call ’em choppers. The man’s flesh looked as if he’d been mauled by a pack of lions. He was torn open to the bone. But it was nothing to the two head bussas. They’d been stomaching murder scenes since they put their first demo down when there were just fifteen.

Lil’ Keith kneeled down and began probing the man’s lifeless corpse for all valuables. He snatched the gold Rolex from his wrist and nearly broke the man’s pinky finger for the matching gold ring.

Seeing back porch lights flick on up the alley, Marcus urged Lil’ Keith to hurry up. “Leave that yeah, round.”

“Hold up there, round,” said Lil’ Keith, still probing. “I know dis nigga holding out on me, ya heard me?” Lil’ Keith didn’t believe in leaving anything behind. He had the man out there damn near naked with his pants down around his ankles.

The screened porch door of the house they were in back of screeched open, and out stepped an old white woman dressed in her house coat. Marcus met eyes with the woman.

“What in God’s name ...” Her words began to trail off as her eyes took in the gruesome scene.

Marcus upped the .357 Bulldog from his waist and licked six shots off in her direction, causing the woman to scramble back inside. “We out, round,” announced Marcus. He snatched up both briefcases and made a run for the getaway car.

Monay sat nervously behind the wheel of the stolen burgundy Impala SS. She heard the hail of gunshots, so what was taking them so long? Her stomach did a backflip as she glanced at the clock mounted on the dashboard. I’ma give y’all two minutes, and I’m out, she thought. Just then, she saw Marcus’s 6-foot 2-inch solid frame bend the corner, heading toward her at full speed. Her heart fluttered as she scrambled for the locks.

“Where’s Keith?” she asked as Marcus jumped inside the passenger seat.

Out of breath, Marcus realized for the first time Lil’ Keith hadn’t been running by his side as he’d thought.

“Where is he?” demanded Monay, her voice laced with fear.

“He’s coming. Just chill.”

Marcus knew his partna best, and one thing was for sure: Lil’ Keith was going to make it out of that jam, so he wasn’t worried.

Relief washed over Monay at the sight of Lil’ Keith banging on the back door for them to let him in. He was so little and crafty that they didn’t even see him when he came from the side of the house they were sitting in front of.

“Go! Go!” yelled Lil’ Keith as he skidded into the back seat.

Marcus couldn’t do anything except shake his head at his lil’ partna. “Round, what chu gone do with the nigga shoes?”

Lil’ Keith had taken the man’s Gucci loafers from his feet.

“Shid, these ma’fuckas chea brand new, and they’re my size. Ya heard me?” said Lil’ Keith, pulling back a wide grin, revealing his gold-capped teeth.

“Really, Keith? snapped Monay. She and Keith met eyes through the rearview mirror.

“Bitch, shut the fuck up and drive, ya heard me?”

Monay turned a few corners before she turned the headlights on. A blur of red and blue lights shot past them as they waited to cross the intersection on Loyola Ave. A lone ambulance tailed the flashing lights at a slow speed. They were in no hurry to make it to the scene. They got the call over the radio that the victim was D.O.A.

Monay eased the Impala into the midnight traffic, and for a few minutes, they rode in silence, waiting to get as far away from there as possible and back to the hood where it was safe. Lil’ Keith’s popping of the locks on the briefcases broke the still silence as they drove.

“I thought we was gonna wait till we got back,” said Monay, her sexy hazel eyes dancing through the rearview.

“And I thought I told you to shut the fuck up and drive,” Lil’ Keith shot back, his eyes never leaving the four kilos of what he was sure to be pure heroin, fresh from Nigeria.

“What we looking like back there, round?” asked Marcus, turning halfway in his seat to try to steal a glance.

“Jackpot, ya heard me?” said Lil’ Keith.

Monay sucked her teeth, letting her irritation be known. She and Lil’ Keith locked eyes again through the mirror, but this time, she held her tongue from wanting to say something. She knew better than to press her luck when it came to Lil’ Keith because Keith was always going to do Keith no matter what she or anybody else said. Plus, she wasn’t trying to piss him off because not only would he not hesitate to put his paws on her, but she could now feel it in his demeanor that he was looking for any reason to say fuck breaking bread with her.

Lil’ Keith and Marcus had been stalking their victim, Brett, for almost a month but could never catch him because he was always changing cars and going out of town for days at a time. They had tried following him home one night as he was leaving Club Metro up in the Central Business District. They had thought they’d get him done for sure that night because he was leaving an upscale club located in the C.B.D., and they thought he’d fall asleep and not expect anybody to be on his line. But as Lil’ Keith and Marcus followed him on the interstate, the nigga all of a sudden punched his Porsche 911 and came up on an exit after hopping four lanes over. Marcus was driving, but he chose to fall back and let the nigga live to see the next day because it would’ve been too obvious had they come up on the exit behind him.

But little did Brett know, he had just baked his own cake. When he left the club, he had a little something he’d scooped up inside who was riding shotgun, giving him dome as they drove on the interstate. Lil’ Keith recognized the young woman off the bat: Monay. She used to go to Fortier High School with him and Marcus back in the day. Marcus couldn’t place her, but Lil’ Keith was one hundred percent certain it was her.

“I’m tellin’ you, round, that’s her.” Lil’ Keith could pick that wide ass out of a line-up if his life depended on it. He used to study her tiny waistline from the back as she would walk the halls of Fortier, shutting shit down with her home girl, Sasha.

“Damn, she still looking good,” said Marcus.

Lil’ Keith came up with a plan, seeing as though they had discovered this nigga’s weakness was pussy—just like most niggas. He was going to slide up under Monay and have her run down Brett’s whole layout for them. He’d put the charm on her at first, then that dope dick to get in her head, and then she’d be ready for the business.

Lil’ Keith smiled wickedly to himself because his plan was brilliant, he thought. Not only would they smash this nigga who’d been ducking them, but he’d also get to fuck on some pussy that he’d been scheming on since high school. Marcus stole a glance over at his crime partna and saw that grin on his face.

“What the lick read, round?”

“I got this nigga, ya heard me?” said Lil’ Keith. He ran down his plan to Marcus on Monay, and that they’d fall back on the nigga for the time being.

Instead of stalking Brett, Lil’ Keith was now stalking Monay. He knew the circles that she moved in, and where he’d most likely find her. It wasn’t a full two days when he ran into her and Sasha at Cricket Club, a nice spot uptown on St. Charles Avenue. It was one of the spots where the big boys came out and play to get their shine on, so Lil’ Keith donned the Girbaud and Soulja Reeboks and slipped into a cream linen outfit with the matching ostrich skin loafers. He slid off into the spot with a fresh fade and his jewelry game on point, Cartier watch and matching bracelet blinging under the club lights. He and Marcus stood under the entrance door for a moment as they came in. All eyes were on them from around the club.

Lil’ Keith spotted Monay and Sasha playing the bar, trying to act unimpressed by their arrival. But it wasn’t high school anymore. Lil’ Keith put his spiel down on any broad who crossed his path. He glided over to the bar while Marcus got them a V.I.P. booth. Lil’ Keith leaned against the bar and gave his order to the bartender for two bottles of Cristal, and then told the bartender to put on his tab whatever the two ladies were drinking, “All night,” he said. And without saying a word to either of the women, he took the two bottles of Cristal and headed for the section where Marcus had posted up, leaving both Sasha and Monayspeechless. He could feel them watching him from across the room, but let them stew in their wonder.

“They on you, round,” said Marcus, taking a sip of the champagne.

“I know.”

It wasn’t a full five minutes before Monay, ffanked by Sasha, were off their bar stools and switching their way over toward the V.I.P. They tried to play it cool by acting like they only came over to say thanks, but really their pussies were jumping to know who these two ballin’-ass niggas were. Lil’ Keith invited them to join him and Marcus, to which Monay and Sasha smiled and accepted. Marcus and Lil’ Keith entertained them all night until the club let out. When Monaysaw what Lil’ Keith and Marcus were rolling in, a platinum Lexus 400 sitting on chrome, any thoughts she may have had on playing coy were out the window. When Lil’ Keith asked her if they were coming with them, Monay answered “Yeah”for both of them.

It was crazy, though, because the whole night at the club, even after they fucked all night and woke up the next morning in bed together, Monay still hadn’t remembered Lil’ Keith from school. He wasn’t about to wake her up, either, because it wasn’t like he was looking for love. He had one agenda with Monay, and that was getting the rundown on Brett. He knew one thing was for certain: if she was putting that platinum head game on him like she’d done to Keith last night, she knew all of the nigga’s business.

As they crossed back into the city of New Orleans, everyone began to breathe easy and relax.

“Turn that radio on, ya heard me?” Lil’ Keith said from the back seat as he patted his pants pockets front to back, looking for the yeah stamped 911. It was his second favorite pastime to murdering shit. He’d been snorting dope since he came off the porch like it was weed.

“I think I lost the yeah back there,” Lil’ Keith said, agitated ’cause he’d waited all day to do some, and now he couldn’t find his yeah to save his life.

“I got some, baby,” Monay said in an ass-kissing tone, happy to be of some help.

But Lil’ Keith crushed her when he snapped back, “Bitch, you see me back here searchin’ and shit while you up there with some yeah on you?” He snatched the foil package from her extended hand and tore into the package, nose first.

Monay watched him through the rearview, hoping the dog food would calm him down because he was in a dark, evil mood, and she couldn’t stand being around him when he was like this.

“You wanna hit this, round?” Lil’ Keith asked, holding out the foil for Marcus.

“Yeah, let me get right with chu.”

“It ain’t that 911, but it’s some straights,” said Lil’ Keith, now starting to feel the high coming on. Monay was still eyeing him. She let her lizard-like tongue slide over the sexy gap she had in her teeth in a teasing way, hoping to change Keith’s mood.

Bitch, you just don’t know, Lil’ Keith thought. He leaned forward and tapped Monay’s shoulder, signaling for her to make the next turn.

Monay drew a question mark with her brow but made the turn anyway. She thought they were supposed to be going to the Marriott Hotel, where they had a sell setup for the dog food, and she’d get her cut. But they were now in Hollygrove, her section of the 17th Ward, where she lived and grew up.

From the back seat, Lil’ Keith’s murderous green eyes searched the blackened sidewalks for any souls, all the while easing his .40 caliber from off his hip. Monay never saw it coming. Lil’ Keith grabbed a fistful of her hair and stabbed the .40 into her skull. The interior lit up like the night sky on the Fourth of July from the thunderous flash. Her brains and bone fragments blew all over the dash, but before her head could touch the steering wheel, Marcus had caught the wheel and pushed her out of the car against the curb. Marcus hadn’t known Lil’ Keith was going to down Monay, but then again, what’s already understood need not be said. He was sure his partna had his reasons, which was good enough for him.

As Marcus drove back toward the hood, he saw Lil’ Keith back there eye-fucking the work again, so it came as no surprise when Lil’ Keith came with the larceny.

“Say, round, this chea is enough for us to make forty keys. I know this chea standing at least a ten, ya heard me?”

“You right, round,” Lil’ Keith said, dreaming with a smirk on his face. Boy, would it be nice, though, to have their own personal stash of the best dope known to New Orleans.

Marcus, seeing that his partna was in a zone about the work they were holding, decided to put a genuine smile on his partna’s face. He told him, “Go ’head and clip us a nice piece, round, ya heard me? Tank won’t miss a couple ounces.”

1996

Club 360 had become the newest happening nightclub in the N.O. They named it 360 because of the panoramic view the club provided from its multi-level structure and many terraces. On any given night, there’d be star athletes from the Saints in the spot, ballers from around the city, and out-of-towners, with nothing but the baddest bitches New Orleans had to offer. There’d always be a line wrapped around the club outside from the entrance to the parking lot. Most people would show up knowing that they’d never make it inside because you had to be somebody to get in or be rolling with somebody who had weight in the city. Broads would be in line, hoping a baller on his way in would pick them out of the many faces to join them in V.I.P.

Tank was loving every minute of being part-owner in the new club. He’d always wanted to own his own club, but he never had the type of legal money it took to build a mega club from the ground up and obtain a liquor license. Tank was an official street nigga from out the Third Ward, bred straight out the Magnolia Projects. The streets gave him the name Tank because it was all about a dollar with him. Niggas feared Tank because he was a deadly combination of a street nigga who could think and a mean hustler, and he was known to be treacherous when needed. Murder was always the answer. That was how he kept niggas in line and how he built his ever-growing empire.

Even with the nightclub he muscled his way into, he had forced a loan shark to move on a couple of Arabs who owned a chain of strip clubs, knowing that they wouldn’t be able to keep up with the payments because their clubs were going down. When they fell behind on the interest, Tank put his muscle hand down by making them front the club, with him as co-owner. At 28, he was living every dope boy’s dream. He was a self-made millionaire. He had a fleet of exotic cars, private estates, and some of the baddest chicks in the N.O. at his beck and call. But still, Tank was like Tony Montana when it came to ambitions. He wanted the world and everything in it. He was going to start with New Orleans and had a hand in the dope game with some of the biggest spots in the city, but he wanted everything to go through him.

The only thing standing in the way of Tank dominating the city’s heroin trade had been Brett, since he had Raw dope straight out of Nigeria that the city had fallen in love with. Tank had tried two approaches so Brett would become his connect. He first approached Brett with his million-dollar smile and vision of how, together, they could lock down the city from uptown to downtown. When Brett didn’t bite, Tank doubled back with an offer he thought Brett wouldn’t be able to refuse. Tank set Brett’s Range Rover on fire in broad daylight, right outside the barbershop where Brett was getting his hair cut. When he came out with his guns drawn, Tank told Brett that next time, he would be inside the trunk unless he got with the program and started moving through him. In fear for his life, Brett agreed to start supplying Tank with his raw heroin, but he went underg. . .