Carl Weber's Kingpins: Charlotte 2

by Blake Karrington

Genres: Christian Suspense

Synopsis

In this highly anticipated sequel and finale, Blake Karrington once again takes you into the world of Ronnie King and Sloan Devaxx.

For Sloan, life couldn't be more perfect. She has the man of her dreams and is beginning the career that she has always envisioned. But Deshawn, her ex, is determined to take them away from her.

Meanwhile, King is facing one of the hardest trials of his life as he is falsely accused of murder and must fight for his freedom and his life. The truth can be harder to prove than a lie, especially when the liar is a public servant. His one saving grace is knowing that his family and the love of his life are there to back him every step of the way. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Will King still be on the throne when the smoke clears?

Release date: July 23, 2024

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

The Queen City, known to visitors and the rest of the world as Charlotte, North Carolina, was named after Queen Charlotte of Great Britain. The old bird would shit bricks if she knew that a black King was driving down the streets of the city named after her and feeling this good, King thought as he drove his new white Jaguar XJL through the center of his hometown. Usually, he would be checking his rearview and side mirrors for the fucking cops or some bitch-ass niggas who had beef with him or his crew. But tonight, he was riding on the high of it being Friday, and nothing but a good time was ahead. With the top down, the air caressed his freshly shaved face. He had just gotten the VIP late-night treatment from his barber, Don. It was after hours, and Don didn’t do shit for anyone unless they made it worth his while, and dropping a C-note to ole boy had definitely made it worth it.

King checked his reflection in the mirror and smiled. His thin mustache was lined up perfectly, and his fade was cut very low. King’s thick eyebrows highlighted his light brown eyes and long eyelashes. Genetics were a great thing. Even when he was young, people would always compliment him on his looks. He had his last growth spurt over the summer after he turned 13. He had shot up six inches, and his shoulders had broadened. He now stood six two, caramel skin, with a sculpted body that turned the heads of women and girls.

Tonight, he was feeling himself. Usually, he was on “ready, set, go,” but for a brief moment, he was going to allow himself to chill.

He stopped at a red light, and a group of college girls walked by. They slowed down and seductively waved at King. He nodded at them and flashed his thousand-watt smile as they smiled back. The light turned green, and he hit the accelerator. Resting his right hand on his steering wheel, he allowed his left hand to hang over the door.

As he cruised, his mind drifted back to his teenage years, when he was just 16 years old.

King was in the driver’s seat of his father’s Mercedes. They were listening to Frankie Beverly & Maze’s “Before I Let Go,” which was his father’s favorite song. King bobbed his head to the music while his father ran down some facts about the family business of hustling.

Reggie reached over and turned down the volume on the radio. “Listen, Ronnie,” Reggie said, calling King by his first name, while looking out the passenger window. “Son, this life we in is like no other. These streets ain’t got no love for no damn body. Games are for chumps, not for this business. This is some serious shit, and you can never underestimate a man’s intentions when it comes to being on top. You feel me?” Reggie said.

King smiled as Reggie’s voice and face began to fade into the side glass of the downtown building. His heart ached as the pain of losing his father at such a young age began to resurface. King took a deep breath. As he exhaled, his current world came back into view for him. As his mind cleared of his father, he pressed the volume button on the radio. Jay-Z’s “Heart of the City (Ain’t No Love)” pumped through the Bose speakers. Damn, Dad kept it all the way real.

He approached the top of the hill and dropped the car down into second gear. This was the perfect place to test out the power of his new toy. He looked at the clock. He had spent enough time bullshitting around. He was only about twenty minutes from his trap house. He needed to meet Strap, collect his money, and make sure those fools had everything bagged up. This was not the night to be running late. It was Friday, and the spot would have been booming all day with business. He didn’t like to leave a lot of cash in the hood. It would tempt folks too much.

King took out his cell phone and called his boy, Strap, to make sure that everything was ready for him to pick up. The phone rang several times until the voicemail came on. King dialed Strap’s number again. It rang twice this time, and then there was silence on the line for a brief second.

“Hey, yo, Strap. What up, fam?” King said as he turned down Milton Road. The silence on the line erupted into loud popping sounds.

“Strap? Hey, Strap, what the fuck is going on? Strap!” King yelled into his Bluetooth. He heard several more shots, and then the line clicked. “Strap, Strap!” King hurriedly pulled over in front of the old Circle K and jumped out. He was only a couple of blocks away from the dope house, and he needed to get his gun out of the trunk. One of his girls had reminded him that the biggest gang in the city, CMPD, were out heavy on the streets, and he needed to ride somewhat clean, especially on a Friday. King wasn’t sure what he was about to walk into, but he knew he’d heard some heavy gunfire when he called Strap.

He placed the Glock in the back of his pants and jumped back in the car. Quickly, he popped it into gear and sped out toward the trap house. He killed his lights as he turned down Milton. The street was quiet as King slowly approached the house. He stopped two houses down from his destination, parked near some bushes that partially hid his car, and raised his top. The streetlights were shot out as usual. The power company had stopped replacing them.

King double-checked his clip and quietly made his way up to the trap house. As he approached, he could see someone slumped on the front steps. He ran over to the body and saw his man holding his stomach and moaning.

“Ah fuck, Strap! Shit,” King said, kneeling beside him. “Damn, brah, where you hit?” King asked while Strap coughed and tried to pull himself up. “Nah, stay still. Who the fuck did this?” King said, holding his friend.

King heard a gurgling sound come from Strap as he took a deep breath. He placed his ear close to Strap’s lips.

Strap took another breath. As he exhaled, he whispered a name to King. “Red.” After uttering the name, his head dropped to the left.

“Shit! Strap, come on, man. You going to be a’ight. Stay with me, brah,” King said. He shook his friend, but the light had left his eyes.

King wanted to scream, but he knew he needed to get inside to survey the full damage. He closed Strap’s eyes and stood. The screen door screeched as he opened it and walked inside the house.

King kept his gun raised as he rounded the corner of the room. As he approached the kitchen, he could smell the blood and death in the air. Chris, Li’l T, and Monster lay on the old, cracked floor with bullets to the back of their heads and blood pooling around them.

“Fuck . . . Fuck!” King said as he scanned the room for any sign of his money or drugs. Nothing was there. All of it was gone.

In that moment, he didn’t care about the money as his eyes fell on his fallen friends. He whispered a prayer to the God of his grandmother for their souls. The prayer of the thugs.

King stood and backed out of the kitchen. He left the house and paused as the body of one of his closest friends lay on the steps. He hated to just leave him there like that, but he knew there was nothing else he could do for his man except make sure the people who took his life lost theirs.

“Brah, I got you. Them niggas gonna pay for this shit!” King said before jumping down the steps.

He sprinted back to the bushes and jumped in his car, made a U-turn, and headed back up Milton. As he drove down the street, he checked his rearview for any potential assailants or witnesses who may have been lurking. He was sure that the cops were probably only minutes away, and as he turned onto Plaza Road, he heard the sirens. Shifting the gears as he made his way to Harris Boulevard, he could feel his blood boil as he thought about Strap and his other homeboys. His heartbeat rang in his ears. He needed to get to somewhere quick so he could process everything, and he needed someone he could trust. His family was what he needed.

King headed toward his mother and stepfather’s house. There, he would find sanctuary to piece together his thoughts and find a solution as to what he should do next. Carlton, King’s stepfather, had stepped up when his biological father passed away from a heart attack. King was 18 when his father passed, and Carlton was right there for him and his mother. Carlton was his father’s best friend, and in many ways, he was just like King’s daddy. They both were old-school street dudes who knew the game and played it well. King had never seen either of them without a custom suit, tie, and a starched shirt. King and Carlton were as close as two people who shared the same DNA.

As he pulled up to his parents’ home, he checked the time. It was late, and King had a second thought about going inside. He didn’t want to wake them up, but he knew that Carlton would be upset if he was not told about the robbery. Using his key, he let himself into the quiet house. He could tell that his mother had decorated yet again. The living room that once had a country theme now had earth-tone colors and African art on the walls, with little elephants, lions, and monkey figurines placed around the room. Hearing the TV, King shook his head and made his way downstairs to the basement.

Carlton was sitting in his favorite recliner watching an episode of Law & Order. “Hey, son!” Carlton said, putting the TV on mute.

King gave him a weak smile as he sat down. He could see the butt of Carlton’s Smith & Wesson on the side of the chair, and he was sure there was more firepower all around that room. The smile was short, and the anxiety of the evening returned.

Carlton took a sip of his Hennessy and slid to the end of the chair. “What’s going on, son? Talk to me.”

King looked up at him and dropped his head back down. “They dead, all of them. Dead,” King stated, fighting back tears. He ran his hands over his face and lay back on the couch. As soon as he closed his eyes, he felt sick to his stomach when Strap’s lifeless stare entered his mind again.

“Who dead?” Carlton said and stood up.

“All my boys at the trap house, Strap, Li’l T, Chris, and Monster. They murked all of them and took the money and dope. Shit, Strap died in my damn arms. I know my nigga got a couple of shots off for sure. Before he died, he told me this nigga named Red did it.”

Carlton could see the hurt in King’s eyes and the fury. He sighed and sat back down in his recliner, shaking his head as he sipped his Hen.

King stood and walked over to the bar. He grabbed a glass and poured himself a drink. After swirling it around for a moment, he sipped it. Both men were quiet for what seemed like forever.

“I’m going to get them niggas, though, and I’m going to start with Red’s ass. They going to get dealt with real soon,” King screamed.

“Son,” Carlton responded while lighting one of his cigars, “in our business, murder brings attention we don’t want or need. Murder results in bodies, and bodies result in investigation by the cops. I know you ready to wage war, but we gotta let this cool for a minute. You gotta be smart about your moves, and check your damn emotions. Keep it in your mind, but don’t act too soon. I know you want vengeance right now, but let’s just wait,” Carlton said, blowing circles of smoke in the air.

King shook his head and allowed the Hennessy to flow down his throat as he listened to his stepfather. “Yeah, let them rest easy for now. But believe me, I am going to have Red and his crew crying like little bitches when I’m done with them.”

“Such language,” a soft voice said from the stairs.

King managed to flash a smile at the beautiful woman who emerged from the stairwell. His mother wore a long silk robe with the belt tied tightly around her small waist, which accentuated her hips. The gold and diamond cross that she wore around her neck touched the heart-shaped tattoo she had on her chest with the name Reggie, King’s father, inside of it. Yolanda, or Yogi, as everyone called her, was in her late forties, but she had the body of a 19-year-old. Her caramel skin was near perfect. She had large brown eyes, full lips, high hips, and her long, relaxed hair flowed down her back. Yolanda was a natural beauty and a true Southern lady. She was soft-spoken, elegant, and graceful. She could enter a room without saying a word, and heads would turn. At least that was the Yolanda side of her. The Yogi side was the complete opposite. She was street educated and would always let you know just what she felt and was ready to whoop some ass if anyone disagreed with what she was saying. King was her only child, and she had vowed to make sure he had everything he could ever want, and she would do anything to make that happen.

Yogi smiled at them both and stretched her arms out to King.

Carlton stood and walked to the bar. He grabbed a glass and poured Yogi a drink.

“Hey, baby, I thought I heard someone come in. It’s good to see you,” Yogi said, hugging her son tightly.

King felt the anger and despair that had consumed him moments ago lift as his mother hugged him. Carlton touched her back and handed her the glass.

Yogi flashed a smile at him and kissed his cheek. “Well, I will let you men get back to business,” Yogi said, making her way toward the stairs. “Oh, and Sunday dinner will be served at four. I don’t care how late you are out tonight, you better not be late.”

King laughed and nodded. His mother cut her eyes at him playfully and blew him a kiss.

“Night, Ma,” King said as she walked back up the stairs.

King awoke from a long nap while sitting in the terminal waiting for his flight to board. That dream had taken him through a brief part of his life that had placed him on the path to this moment. His back pressed against the hard plastic bench, his fingers now tapping on the smooth surface of his phone screen. The seat cushion beneath him shifted as he adjusted his weight, and the cool metal of his watch brushed against his wrist with each movement.

His meeting had gone well, and he was pleased with how things were looking for Sloan’s career.

There was no money like dope money, but there was also something about knowing that he could make a grip of money the legal way. He didn’t have to worry that the Feds would come, he didn’t have to worry about cases being built, or indictments, and the music business was very lucrative. If he was going to step away from the drug game and toward something legit, the music business was a good choice. Still, even though the meeting went well, King was still uneasy. Since Tiana’s death, he couldn’t sleep. His heart ached for his friend, and the cruel reminder of what came with the game made him want to exit that much faster. He lived one hell of a life, and he had enough memories to last a lifetime. King was ready to bow out gracefully, but there were some things he had to do first.

He knew that Kareem wouldn’t be able to rest until the people responsible for Tiana’s death were dealt with. Not even that would bring her back, but it would be a start. King was haunted by thoughts of Kordell, Keana, and KJ growing up without their mother. All Tiana wanted was for Kareem to leave the game because she feared him dying or going to jail, and she was the one who ended up losing her life. The shit wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all, and King was becoming sick and tired of the never-ending battles that came with being who he was. He was ready to wave that white flag.

His cell phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. With weary eyes, he glanced at the screen and saw that Sloan was calling. Things were picking up for her quite fast, and she was in Atlanta meeting with a very famous producer who requested she sing on one of his tracks. That was an absolute honor, and King didn’t waste any time booking her the flight.

“What’s good?” he asked, relieved that she was able to distract him from the feeling of sadness that had suddenly consumed him.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. How did the meeting go?”

“It went quite well actually. I will be boarding the plane in about two minutes, and there is no way that I can run down everything that was covered in the meeting. Just know that people are fucking with you, and there are some very good deals being placed on the table. You don’t even have an album out yet, and I got an email earlier about a possible endorsement,” King stated with pride. Being a rookie in the business had some people trying to come at him like he didn’t know what he was doing. He even had a label suggest that he give them Sloan. It felt good knowing that he was helping her to get to the level that she desired without him having much experience in the business. King was going to prove everyone who doubted him wrong. Sloan was going to be the next Rihanna or Beyoncé, and he was willing to bet the bank on that. The squeal that she let out made him aware that she was pleased also.

“That’s awesome. Thank you so much for all you’ve done for me, my love. I will be wrapping up here around the time your plane lands, and then I’ll be heading back to Charlotte tonight. If I’m not too tired, maybe we can discuss things over dinner.”

“That sounds like a plan, babe.”

King smiled as he ended the call. An announcement was made that first class could start boarding the plane, and he stood up. Soon, instead of dope deals and getting revenge on enemies, he’d just be a businessman catching flights and closing deals, and he was looking forward to it.

Panama sat on the porch of the old farmhouse. The home was nestled in the middle of over one hundred acres of land that his family had owned, going well back to the early 1900s. The cows grazed on the high grass, as the chickens were clucking in their pen. It took Panama a minute to get his nasals used to the smell of chicken shit and rotten meat. His grandfather still herded cattle, raised hogs, and talked shit like he had always done for the last eighty-five years. Although he had . . .