Qwess downshifted to third gear and the V12 behind him roared like a lion attacking its prey. He floored the accelerator, and the Pagani Zonda R rocketed forward in the left lane of I-40, as he whizzed by other cars doing over 120 miles an hour! He was on the second to last leg of the Gumball 3000, and he was having the time of his life.
The Gumball 3000 was an annual race (disguised as a rally) that globe-trotted to different countries every year. Each year the rally grew bigger and bigger, and the locations more distant. Qwess was a regular staple on the circuit, and he especially loved the routes in Europe as they allowed him to thrash out his stable of exotic cars. Back in the day, he would bring members of his Crew along and allow them to run his cars in the rally along with him. Imagine, wild youngsters barreling through exotic locations in funny-shaped cars. However, over the years, his circle had grown considerably smaller the more successful he became.
This year the rally was being run in the good ole U.S. of A., and Qwess was rolling dolo in the Zonda. Times like this were what Qwess craved the most. His superstar status had relegated him to becoming a prisoner to fame, so whipping his supercar out in the boonies was his definition of time away from it all. He had always been a car nut, so running the rally was his idea of heaven on earth. The Gumball had stopping points along the route. At each stopping point the participants would park their cars for the night and attend lavish parties thrown by the event organizers. The stopping point for this night was in Vegas.
Qwess spotted a Mercedes SLR McLaren in his rearview challenging him. The car was bright silver and resembled a shiny bullet barreling toward his rear. Qwess pushed the Zonda into fourth gear and floored it. The engine wailed like only a V-twizzy could and the car leaped from 130 to 160 in a millisecond. But the SLR was right there with him every step of the way.
Suddenly, the SLR pulled up beside him at 160 miles per hour, and the tinted window glided down. Qwess’s eyes darted from the road to the window easing down. He tried to make out the driver of the half-million-dollar machine, but all he could see was long blond hair whipping in the wind. Her jeweled hand waved at him, and that was all he could see before his superior machine pulled away, leaving the SLR in the dust.
In his rearview Qwess saw a bloodred Lamborghini Aventador catching up to him. The car was moving so fast it was nearly invisible as it drew up beside him. Qwess’s top was peeled back in the Zonda, so the occupants of the Lambo could see him clearly. However, the Lambo was tinted out as black as midnight. Qwess figured it was probably a sheikh from the Middle East or one of their heirs starstruck from seeing a bona fide mogul in the flesh. Qwess decided to put on for the spectator. He cranked the audio up to the max and allowed an unreleased track to bleed out into the air as he revved the engine on the Zonda. The Aventador revved its engine and matched Qwess bar for bar, and the two V12s made a beautiful melody out on the road.
Suddenly, the Aventador swerved into Qwess’s lane, nearly sideswiping him. He stomped on the brake and recovered just in time to read the license plate of the Aventador.
It read: Diamante!
Qwess fumed as he readjusted the Zonda along with his mood. However, this was his time and he wasn’t going to allow anything to dampen his mood. He retrieved a freshly rolled joint and slowed down to fire it up. The wind whipping through the luxury confines of the car was making his task difficult. (Because Qwess wasn’t really a smoker it took him a while to learn he had to cup the flame, but he eventually got it.) Once his mission was complete, he dropped the throttle and sped off into the desert.
Destination: Las Vegas.
The MGM Grand was Ground Zero for the most lavish party of the Gumball. Over 10,000 people from all over the world packed into one large building was turning into a movie. Texas oil tycoons mingled with Middle Eastern oil barons. Athletes partied with rock stars. Models partied with gold diggers—well, they were actually one and the same.
With entry into the Gumball costing nearly $100,000, it was more than just a rally. It was actually a worldwide networking event for the ultra-rich. The parties in each city every night after the conclusion of the day’s events were full of wheeling and dealing, lewd, lascivious acts, and overall fun. The Gumball was the next level of the game.
Qwess was escorted into the party with only his right-hand man and personal protector, Hulk, leading the way. Hulk was one of the few remaining members of the Crescent Crew. He had been Qwess’s bodyguard when Qwess ruled the streets at the helm of the Crescent Crew and he had clung to his side as Qwess forayed into the music industry. Hulk’s loyalty was unparalleled and without question. He lived for Qwess and would quickly die for him too. In fact, Hulk’s twin brother, Samson, was pulling time for Qwess at the moment.
“Damn, this party is all that,” Hulk yelled over the Pharrell track quaking the room, as he escorted Qwess to their perch high above everyone so they could have a bird’s eye view of everything.
Qwess was sauced up on his walk up. He was rich-casual and cool in ripped, distressed denim jeans, Giuseppe Zanotti sneakers and a white satin button up with the top flayed open. He flicked the Richard Mille on his wrist as he nodded to his comrade.
“Absolutely, my brother. Absolutely. This is what it’s about, working hard and playing harder.”
“Damn right!” Hulk agreed.
Qwess took a spot at the tabletop and bobbed his head to the music. He was allowing himself to get lost in the vibe. Losing his best friend, King Reece, forced him to put things in perspective. He had the world and never paused enough to enjoy it. Since King Reece’s untimely death he made a vow to himself to do better.
Qwess scanned the room, and something caught his attention on one of the dance floors. A woman with a blond streak of hair was bobbing up and down, flinging wildly, having a grand time. Qwess’s eyes followed south past the mane of hair and drank in all of her curves, stuffed tastefully inside a peach bodysuit. Her light skin glowed beneath the kaleidoscope of lights streaming through the room. As if she felt him observing her, she spun around and locked eyes with Qwess. They smiled in unison, and she began teasing him, writhing her body seductively, rubbing her curves, arching her back like a cat in heat.
Qwess licked his lips and sipped his drink as he enjoyed the tease. He tapped Hulk to allow him to share in the show. After all, it wasn’t no fun if the homies can’t have none. Hulk shook his head and grimaced as if her beauty was so pure it hurt him to view it. Meanwhile, the beauty continued her show.
As Qwess and Hulk watched the woman put on her show, a huge commotion erupted by the entrance. They tore their eyes away from the woman and saw a mob of people pushing their way through the crowd. As the crowd parted, a sea of men wearing all red materialized. There were no less than twenty of them in all, following lockstep behind a behemoth of a man leading the way. The man cut an intimidating presence, all height, muscle, and jewelry, the highlight of his ensemble being an impressive twenty-carat charm in the shape of a diamond draped across his chest.
The man bogarted his way through the crowd until he pulled right up on the beauty that was tantalizing Qwess and Hulk. He saw her and followed her gaze right up to Qwess. Qwess returned the man’s stare with a smirk, and the giant saluted him. Qwess snubbed the salute and turned his back to that crowd. Waiting for him in his area was a tall man with a nose so big he resembled an eagle.
Hulk tensed up and stood in front of Qwess.
The tall man raised his palms in surrender. “Calm down, big guy. I come in peace.”
Qwess peeked his head around Hulk. “Well, you better speak fast then. State your name and your business.”
The man smiled. “Qwess, I can assure you no one in this building means you any harm. This is Gumball—we’re all wealthy!”
The man had a point. Qwess relaxed a bit. “You got a point there.”
“Sure I do! I’m Liam Cohen; I always make the right point. Sit down, let’s have a drink and talk some business.”
Qwess obliged the man. They sat down and popped a couple bottles of Krug Rosé champagne. Meanwhile, Hulk stood guard over Qwess’s shoulder.
“So, I hear you’re quite the car collector,” Liam noted. “That’s your Zonda outside, and I hear you have a Huayra on order too. Then, of course your cherished LaFerrari, and fleet of Lambos.”
Qwess nodded. “My Huayra is actually done. I couldn’t get it shipped here in time for the rally,” he corrected, referring to the new model by Pagani, of which only a hundred were made. The car was valued at over $2 million.
Liam chuckled and kicked his right leg over his left knee. “Impressive indeed. A man that has it all.”
Qwess took a swig of his champagne and shrugged. “Eh, I do all right.”
Liam chuckled. “This guy,” he said to no one in particular. “Well, let’s toast to success!”
The men clanged their glasses, and Qwess spoke next. “So, Liam, you say your name is? You seem to know so much about me, but I don’t know you at all.”
“And that’s normally how I prefer to keep things. I like to stay behind the scenes and let the guys like you peacock and hog the spotlight. I don’t like to come out much, unless I need to.”
“I can relate.”
“Yeah, I know. You like to stay in the shadows yourself these days. A lot has been going on in your life. Lots of tragedy and misfortune.”
As Liam spoke Qwess was beginning to see this wasn’t just a casual visit among Gumballers. Liam seemed to have come over with intent. With all that Qwess had been going through lately, he had yet to discern if Liam was friend or foe.
“Again, Liam, you seem to know so much about me. Why don’t you tell me who you are?”
Liam sighed and waved his hand dismissively as if his identity was not of importance. “I used to be a very big figure in the entertainment industry.”
“Used to be?” Qwess fished his mental Rolodex for a name. He knew of all the major players in the entertainment industry, and this man’s name was foreign to him. “I don’t recall hearing your name in my circles, and I’ve done it all. Music, film, books.”
“Well, someone like you wouldn’t know of someone like me—no disrespect intended.”
“Ahhh, you definitely sound like you turning on Disrespect Street to me,” Qwess pointed out.
“Not intentional, my friend. I can assure you.”
“Okay . . .” Qwess spread his hands, waiting for him to go on. “I’m listening.”
“So, I’m in the entertainment industry, on the distribution and delivery side. Well, I was a partner in the largest music distribution network in the world, but the climate of the music world is changing, so recently I cashed out.”
“You cashed out?”
“Yeah, I sold my stake in the company.”
Qwess nodded and stroked his chin. At his level, when people managed to get close to him, they always had a ploy or an idea to separate him from his money.
“Why on earth would you do that?” Qwess asked.
“Because I’m a visionary. I see things before others do, and sometimes that forces you to be the only man in the room. You understand that, I’m sure.”
“Yeah, I do, but let’s stop talking in riddles. I thought you said you wanted to talk business. I’m actually on vacation, but I obliged you because you seem to be an interesting man. But my patience is getting short.”
Liam sighed heavily. “Fair enough. I’ll get right to it.”
“Good.”
“Qwess, simply put, trouble is coming your way. The Linda Swansen incident? It’s not going anywhere.”
Upon hearing Linda Swansen’s name, Qwess perked up. Linda Swansen was a music executive who had hired someone to kill him in retaliation for him enacting “Crew Business” to finagle his vice president’s wife out of a bad contract.
“People in high places have blackballed you. Everyone in the industry has deemed you persona non grata. They have all joined forces to break you.”
Qwess was amused. With the money he and his wife had amassed, combined with the fortune King Reece had left behind, he was alllllll the way up.
Liam knew that smirk all too well. “I know you’re a very wealthy man, but there is more than one meaning to ‘breaking a man.’ Business is not about money; it’s about relationships. Money is just the reward.”
“Touché.”
“Fortunately for you, I have burned some profitable relationships, and I’m ready to forge new ones.”
“Well, I’m sure you’re not an altruist, so what does this have to do with me?”
“Qwess, if you are willing to embrace technology, I can make you the first hip-hop billionaire.”
Qwess smiled. “Now you’re talking my language.”
Fayetteville, North Carolina
The man slid through the door of the lounge off Bragg Boulevard with his chest poked out and looked up at the moon. He was a bit tipsy from the alcohol he consumed, but he was absolutely drunk off power.
The man looped his arm around the tall Latina to his left and motioned for the big man in front of him to lead the way to the Toyota Tundra sitting tall on a customized lift kit. As he followed his escort he stumped his pointy, ostrich-skinned boot on the pavement. The blunder elicited a giggle from the beauty under his arm.
They made it to the truck, and the man helped the lady get into the back. Excited about diving between the hot young woman’s thighs, he turned to rush to the passenger side of the truck so they could leave.
He never saw the black-on-black Durango truck creeping up alongside him.
The passenger side window of the Durango eased down, and a long, silenced barrel extended out past the tinted window.
“Psst, yo, my man . . .” someone whispered.
The man turned around just in time to see the barrel of the automatic weapon light up. A split second later bullets flipped from the AK-47 and ripped into his upper torso. His body slammed against the door of the truck, pinning his bodyguard inside. More shots lifted him up in the air before his body crumpled to the pavement on the driver’s side of the Tundra. As he lay on the ground shaking and convulsing, four men poured from the Durango and surrounded the Tundra. In unison, they opened fire with silenced automatic weapons, killing the beautiful woman inside. The bodyguard attempted to even things up, but before he could palm the pistol underneath his arm, two bullets slammed into his forehead and exited out the back of his skull, leaving golf ball–sized holes.
The shooters scanned the area for more enemies and smiled when they saw that they had eliminated all opps. They stood guard on each side of the Tundra while the front passenger door of the Durango slowly opened.
Bone stepped from the Durango and stood tall over the Latino man writhing in pain on the pavement. Bone aimed the AK-47 at the man’s head.
“Ole badass, Chabo. You really thought we wouldn’t catch up with yo’ ass?” Bone taunted. “It took us a while, but I swore to god that I wouldn’t rest until you do.”
It was true. Bone had vowed to King Reece to track down his killers. Although he had learned that Chabo and Gil had fired the fatal shots that eventually took King Reece out, Gil had been confirmed dead at the scene of the crime inside the bunker that day.
Chabo, however, had managed to escape death. He survived a chest shot at point-blank range inflicted by King Reece. Instead of laying low, he had worn his wound like a badge of honor and turned all the way up. His superstitious comrades believed that he had been protected by Santa Muerte (the patron saint of death) that day, and surviving an attack by the infamous King Reece had elevated him to don status. He quickly used the new reputation to pad his riches, traveling in and out of the States building a new team on both sides of the border. Little did he know that half of the Black criminal world was looking for him. King Reece was beloved and respected by all. The irony of the streets’ code of honor was that if a Black gang had killed King Reece, it would have been tragic, but not deemed disrespectful. The fact that a Mexican gang had murdered him was like a smack in the face to every hustler in the hood. So hustlers from state to state were more than eager to collect the bounty placed on Chabo’s head by the Crescent Crew. It had taken nearly two years, but now Chabo’s luck had run out.
Bone kicked Chabo in the ass with his heavy Timberland boot. “Turn yo’ punk ass over, motherfucker!”
Chabo clutched one of his wounds in his chest and grunted, “¡Mierda! ¿Quién eres tú?”
Bone smiled, pleased that he understood Chabo. In his quest to track Chabo down, he had even learned a little bit of Spanish.
“I’m your death angel, nigga! The last fucking thing you will see in this life,” Bone snarled. Suddenly, something around Chabo’s neck caught Bone’s eye. “Wait, hold up, I know that’s not what I think it is?”
Bone leaned down and gripped the medallion hanging on the end of the necklace around Chabo’s neck. He inspected it and, sure enough, it was a gold-and-diamond emblem of the coat of arms for the Crescent Crew. However, a crude slash of red rubies was etched over the middle of the medallion. The implication was clear and full of disrespect.
Bone was livid!
“You disrespectful wetback motherfucker!!!” Bone roared. He crashed his boot into Chabo’s head and chest repeatedly. That’s when he felt the bulletproof vest Chabo wore. “Oh, you a slick-ass, huh? Bet a few of them rounds from that chopper still lit that ass up, though.”
Bone kicked Chabo in his mouth, and blood poured onto the pavement. He smiled a sinister smile. “You know what? I actually prefer it this way. You gonna pay for what you did, motherfucker. Aye, pop that hatch in the back,” Bone called out to one of his shooters. “Once again, it’s on!”
Miami, Florida
The first time Flame laid eyes on Sasha Beaufont he knew she was going to be his. He just didn’t know that getting her would cost so much.
The first time he actually met her was down in Miami for the SoBe Fashion Show. He was scheduled to perform his new ballad with Saigon. Yes, ballad! Flame was about to drop an R&B album.
He had done the rap game to death and needed something else to challenge him. No one could have guessed that singing would be his new thang. Nevertheless, here he was about to explode on some thugged-out R&B shit!
So far, the industry had embraced his new foray, so he was given carte blanche while in Miami. Even though his net worth was estimated to be around $10 million, the sponsors of the show still provided everything free. His suite at the Delano, exotic transportation, food, liquor, drugs . . . name it and he had it laid at his feet in spades. This was the next level of the game—superstar status. Li’l Joey had come a long way from shooting craps on Bunce Road.
Flame hadn’t rolled with a large entourage since back in the day when his homies had accompanied him to Myrtle Beach for Bike Week. They had run a train on some white girls and caught a statutory rape charge for their heroics. The incident had nearly cost Flame his freedom and his career. He learned from that day about the importance of having the right circle around him. For the Miami trip, he was only rolling with his personal assistant, Freeman, his bodyguard and best friend, 8-Ball, and one of the models he had personally selected to debut his fall clothing collection. Her name was Anetral and she was bad as fuck! Six feet even, smooth caramel skin, cheeks sharp enough to cut diamonds, and long, wavy hair like a black Rapunzel, the chick was baaaad.
For Flame, the only bad thing about her was she was vegetarian, as in no meat, as in carpet-muncher. Other words: pure lesbian. . . .
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