They led the Dirty South's most infamous crew. One became a rap superstar. One ruled the streets. But when the king comes back hard for his throne, who will be left standing? Life couldn't get better for the Crescent Crew. With an exclusive Mexican pipeline, they've got the Southern drug trade on lock. Former founder Qwess is leveraging rap superstardom to break the music industry's commercial stranglehold. And former leader Reece is fresh off a five-year prison bid-and out to forever secure the Crew's dominance. But as Reece is working a brutal vendetta, a Crew mutiny will drag him back into all-out street war. Now, between the ambitious young Crew and ruthless OG Reece, only one can live to reign . . .
Release date:
June 25, 2019
Publisher:
Kensington Books
Print pages:
320
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The tinted-out Suburban skated down the gritty North Carolina street en route to its destination. In back, a man clad in all black checked the rounds in a magazine then slammed it in the butt of his AR-15 assault rifle. Next, he readjusted the infrared beam mounted on the weapon’s barrel and clicked it to make sure it was working. Satisfied that his weapon was ready, he radioed the two Suburbans trailing him. They reported that they were loaded and ready to go as well.
“We ready,” the man said to his driver. The driver gunned the engine, and the heavy SUV rocketed forward.
Moments later, all hell broke loose as three trucks skidded to a halt in front of a duplex. Children across the street watched with mouths agape as man after man exited the trucks in all black carrying big guns. The first two men carried a battering ram, which they slammed into the front door of the duplex without warning, exploding the heavy door off its hinges. As the door crashed into the wall, the men swarmed inside like killer bees with their assault rifles leading the way. They were met with immediate resistance as the first two men to rush through the door were tagged in the chest by heavy gunfire. Their bulletproof vests prevented death, but the impact blew them back through the door for a reluctant retreat.
The army of men behind them regrouped and charged again. This time they were more careful. They rushed through the door and quickly dispatched the resisters with two shots to the chest. Then they cleared the rest of the house in under a minute, pouring into room after room until they were sure the only people inside were their victims lying on the floor gasping for breath.
The leader of the federal assault team stood over one of the men and aimed the barrel of the rifle at his melon. “Just tell us where he’s at, and you can go,” he said calmly. Meanwhile, the other men posted up at the windows of the home with their weapons ready.
“You wasting time, man. You gonna bleed out. Come on, what’s it gonna be?” he prodded. “You gonna tell us or what? We know he was here earlier. Right here in this very damn house! Now you tell us, or we gonna toss this muthafuckin’ house up while you bleed to death.”
The federal agents had invaded this town on a tip. They had good reason to believe that the number one man on their Most Wanted list had just been in this very house moments ago. They had been pursuing him for nearly half a decade, and they were finally closing in on him. They refused to let him escape this time.
“What’s it gonna be?” the agent asked one last time.
For a response, the man simply held out his left hand. “Listen good, because these will be the last words you hear,” the man named Muhammad began. “There is nothing you can do to me that would make me feel worse than betraying my leader.” He opened his hand to reveal a grenade.
The masked man’s eyes fell on the grenade. “Whoa . . . wait a minute. Calm down,” he pleaded after seeing the explosive. “Put that thing away now. Close your hand back over it real slow,” he instructed, backing away. He removed his mask to reveal a pale face and striking blond hair. “We can work this out, Muhammad. Nobody has to die. All we want is your leader.”
Muhammad chuckled and completely opened his left hand, revealing a full view of the grenade. Both safeties were already removed, and when he opened his hand, the spoon popped off. He looked the blond-haired leader of the assault team in his eyes and barked, “Death before dishonor! Crescent Crew to the death!” Then he tossed the grenade into the air.
The men tried to escape, but it was too late. In three seconds flat, the house exploded, taking everyone, including Muhammad, with it.
Down the street, in the woods, a lone man observed the explosion with a demented smile.
The Wahid Compound was crowded with people. Visitors from all over the nation and abroad populated all three houses located on the grounds of the Wahid Compound. They had all come to welcome home a special person. A person who was dear to everyone present in one way or another at one time or another.
Qwess anxiously awaited the arrival of the guest of honor. It had been a long time coming. Four years, to be exact, since he had begun putting plans in motion to bring the guest of honor home. Now all his striving was finally coming to fruition.
Qwess walked from his house to his sister Fatimah’s house, then to his mother’s house, making sure everything was perfect. All kinds of foods were being served, a DJ was spinning records, and a live band was on hand to play some of the guest of honor’s favorite songs.
It was mid-May, and the sweltering Carolina heat had the majority of the guests huddling by the side of the Olympic-size swimming pool located in the middle of the three houses. As Qwess made his rounds he saw various people whom he had personally invited to this little shindig. As he passed through Fatimah’s house a second time, he saw just the brother he needed to speak with: his brother-in-law Raheem. He had been searching for him all afternoon, and he’d finally stumbled upon him. Qwess slipped into the room and gently pushed the door closed behind him.
“As-salaam alaykum! You just the man I need to see,” Qwess said.
“Wa alaykum salaam. What’s up, Qwess?”
“I need to holla at you about something,” Qwess said.
“What’s on your brain, brother?” Raheem asked, although he already assumed where the conversation was going.
Qwess sat on the bed and weighed his words carefully before he spoke. “Listen, I spoke to Fatimah. She told me what happened.”
“And?”
“And,” Qwess replied. He stood to look in the mirror beside Raheem where he was getting dressed. “She told me about you coming home late. She told me about the argument y’all had. She told me about finding the lipstick on your collar and the number in your pocket.”
Raheem was visibly embarrassed and more than a little perturbed. He knew Qwess could be about that action, but he also knew Qwess was one to mind his own business. Raheem didn’t know which Qwess was coming at him.
“So, what’s this got to do with you?” Raheem asked.
Qwess allowed himself a chuckle before he answered, “It has everything to do with me,” he said. “Number one, that’s my sister and your wife! Number two, you got kids—four, to be exact—that don’t need to see this kind of shit. And number three . . .” Qwess placed both of his hands on Raheem’s shoulders and squeezed them tight. “You put your hands on her again and I’m going to put mine on you!”
Raheem felt more offended than threatened. “Qwess, you know me better than that, yo. I mean, all couples have problems, but I would never do anything to hurt your sister. I guess I’m just nervous about today.”
Qwess could tell Raheem was truly being sincere, so he relented in his aggression. “Yo, I understand where you coming from, bro. I imagine it could be stressful for you. All I’m saying is, treat your wife right. What kind of man would I be to let somebody just manhandle my sister? You know what I’m saying?”
Raheem nodded.
“Cool. Now stop worrying and come on out. He should be here any minute. In fact, that’s them pulling up now. Come pay your respects.”
“All right, I’ll be out.”
Qwess left Raheem and went to meet the limo that had pulled onto the compound. There was already a crowd surrounding the car, so Qwess fell back and played his part.
His mother emerged from the limo first. She was garbed down in an exquisite gown with matching hijab. She was beaming from ear to ear, for she was extremely happy. Fatimah, and her three boys and one girl, crowded the limo, preventing the other occupant from exiting. Aminah Wahid quickly ushered them out the way and reached inside to give the last occupant a hand. Seconds later, Khalid Ali Wahid, the patriarch of the Wahid Clan, emerged from the back of the limo wearing a cream linen suit. He stood to his full six foot, three inches and took in the whole scene before him.
Throngs of people rushed to congratulate him on his freedom. Some people he knew by face, others by name only. Khalid had been gone for almost fifteen years. Most of the people present, he had seen grow up through pictures only.
He hugged his dear daughter Fatimah tightly. She had been nineteen years old when he left the streets for his state-sponsored vacation. Now the teenager he had left was a grown woman with a family of her own. Of course, he had seen her on the many visits over the years, but that was in the element created by the government. It was different seeing her in the free cipher, in her element. She had grown to be a beautiful woman. She had also made him a grandfather—four times over.
Khalid bent to hug his grandsons. The two twins and the youngest boy all returned his hug. The youngest child, a two-year-old girl, appeared frightened. She had never seen him in person, only through pictures. She couldn’t accurately discern the difference between a picture and reality; therefore it scared her.
Khalid picked her up and attempted to break the ice. Naturally, she wailed out in terror. Then, suddenly, she became quiet as her gaze extended beyond her grandfather. Khalid hadn’t noticed the little girl’s father walk up until Fatimah introduced him.
“Daddy, this is my husband, Raheem,” Fatimah said. Khalid passed the baby off to Fatimah and issued Raheem a firm handshake. This was their first time meeting.
“Nice to meet you, son,” Khalid offered, pumping Raheem’s hand like a piston. Raheem almost buckled from the grip. Khalid was fifty-three years old, but looked to be only thirty-five, thanks to the regimented workout he had accustomed himself to while in the federal penitentiary. He looked thirty-five but had the strength of a man ten years younger than that.
“Nice to meet you, sir. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you,” Raheem offered, forgetting his Muslim etiquette. Khalid was Muslim in theory, as was Raheem, which would make the proper greeting As-salaam alaykum. However, due to Raheem’s nervousness, his etiquette went out the window.
“I hope so. Are you taking care of my little girl?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, good. Because that’s still my heart. I would hate to see her unhappy,” Khalid said, boring his gaze into Raheem. The statement was made with clear underlying implications. The twinkle in his eye and the smirk on his dark cheek made it clear that Khalid Ali Wahid was still gangsta at heart.
“No, sir. You don’t have to worry about that,” Raheem assured him.
“Good. Now where’s my boy—Qwess, as he’s called nowadays?” Khalid asked, looking around the compound.
Everyone in front of him parted like the Red Sea until there was a clear line of sight between father and son. Both men froze as they took each other in, Khalid in his heavenly white and Qwess in his royal cream attire. As Khalid stared at his son, a lone tear slid down his cheek.
Khalid was so proud of his son. Not because he was responsible for bringing him home, but for all his accomplishments thus far. His son had become a legal millionaire, an international superstar, a Grammy Award–winning artist, a philanthropist, and a serial entrepreneur. The most important accomplishment to Khalid was that his son hadn’t forgotten the most important thing in life: He had taken care of his family. He had done the right thing by assuming the role of the head of his family. Now, Khalid could return to his rightful role and reassume his rightful place as head of the family.
Qwess was surprised to hear his father speaking Spanish, but he returned the greeting.
“Yo soy bien.” I am well. “¿Tu hablas español, sí?’
“Sí. Muchas gracias a tu.” Yes. Thanks to you.
For a moment, it was just the two giants and no one else. A special moment shared between father and son. A rendering of mutual respect.
“Well, father, when you’re finished here, meet me at my house. I have something for you,” Qwess requested.
There were a lot of guests that had come a long way—some from as far as Cuba—to pay homage. Qwess didn’t want to prevent a happy homecoming in any way. So he excused himself to his mansion, while his father reacquainted himself with friends and family. They would have plenty of time to catch up. Plus, he had business to attend to. So, as he retreated to his mansion, he made sure Doe and Hulk were in tow.
Hulk was Qwess’s personal security. Qwess’s stature in the entertainment industry required that he roll with security now. He couldn’t go anywhere without being mobbed by fans. It was only fitting that Hulk be his security since he was a chiseled three hundred and twenty pounds of muscle and stood six foot six barefoot. He had also been with Qwess for almost ten years in one capacity or another. First in the streets, then in the music industry. Through it all, Hulk had been there. He had seen the good, the bad, and the ugly, and kept his mouth shut. He possessed secrets that could bury Qwess in a box forever. He had done things for Qwess that could give him the needle. The two men were bound by blood.
Doe was vice president at Atlantic Beach Productions and had completely bossed up. He and Qwess went back even further. Both were only fifteen years old when Qwess had moved to North Carolina after Qwess’s father was convicted and subsequently sent to prison. Qwess and Doe had clicked immediately. They bonded over their mutual love of music. Qwess rapped, and Doe’s cousin Reece rapped also. In fact, Doe’s cousin Reece had already secured a record deal when Qwess met Doe. Doe introduced Qwess to Reece inside of a rap cipher in which Reece was dominating. Qwess flowed and displayed his skills, and although Reece emerged the victor of the cipher, he was impressed by Qwess’s skills. From that day the men became inseparable. That is, until Reece had caught his bid almost four years ago.
“Yo, man, what that house nigga John Meyers say?” Qwess asked Doe, referring to his point-of-contact at AMG Records, ABP’s parent label.
“Same ole shit. ‘Come on, please stay. We can sweeten the pot,’” Doe mocked.
Qwess chuckled as he logged onto his computer in his home office. Hulk grabbed an energy drink from the miniature refrigerator while absently listening in on the conversation.
“Yeah, I bet that they do wish they could sweeten the pot. Fuckin’ vultures! We gonna give ’em this last album and that’s it. Ya dig?” Qwess promised.
“No doubt. When you scheduled to do the magazine interview?” Doe asked.
“I believe it’s next week.”
“Word?”
“Yeah.”
“So, have you decided who you gonna take to be Mysterio yet?” Doe wondered, more than a little concerned.
Qwess sighed, “I haven’t decided yet. I’ll probably just take Flame and fudge it. Ya dig? We gotta get just the right person to play the part,” he explained. “What’s up wit’ ole girl? She ready to come on over to ABP yet?”
Doe scratched his head, buying time. He hated to be a disappointment, but it was what it was. “Yo, man, she definitely ready to leave AMG, but they ain’t trying to let her go.”
“What you mean, they ain’t trying to let her go?”
“She still under obligation for another album because of that extension she signed. And AMG not budging.”
“Oh, we can make ’em budge!” Hulk interjected. “It wouldn’t be the first time we had to give someone a little motivation.”
“Yeah, I know we can, but we not trying to go that route. Not yet anyway,” Qwess decided. He stood to answer the knock at the door. “We’ll see how she handles things. After all, that is your broad, Doe.”
Qwess opened the door and let his father in. Khalid oozed into the room. He’d always had a smooth yet powerful presence, but since his release he was practically floating.
“Salaam alaykum, brothers.” Khalid checked out the spacious office with marble floors. “This is a nice spot you got yourself here, son.”
“Thanks. Pop, this is Rolando and Hulk,” Qwess introduced.
Khalid waved his hand in dismissal. “Between what you told me and what I’ve read in those magazines, I feel like I already know them.” Khalid looked Hulk up and down. “Damn, son, I didn’t realize you were this big! What are you, six-five?”
“Six-six.”
“So, Rolando, Reece is your cousin, right?
“Yes, sir.”
“Um-hmm.” Khalid shook his head. “Damn shame what happened. I wish Salim would’ve come to me a week before. Just one week and it probably wouldn’t have happened like that.”
Khalid was referring to Reece’s bust. Qwess was visiting his father the very day Reece was busted. Turned out Khalid knew all about Reece’s girlfriend being a federal agent. He had been trying to speak to his son, but Qwess had been unable to pay his father a visit due to the demanding schedule the music business heaped on him. Ironically, the day Qwess did come was the day it was too late.
“Yeah, I know.”
Qwess’s mood changed from festive to somber. He always wondered what if... What if he had put his family first?
“You can’t blame yourself, son,” Khalid said as if reading Qwess’s mind. “None of you can. Besides, he came off good. What he got, like a few months left?”
“Nah. Like a few weeks,” Qwess corrected. He quickly changed the subject and suggested everyone return downstairs to enjoy the party.
As they wandered back out to the party, Qwess tugged at his father’s arm, and the two of them took a detour to Qwess’s garage. Inside was Qwess’s green Lamborghini Murciélago, platinum Bentley GT, and black Hummer H2. At the end of the fleet was a car with a cover over it. It was evident that it was a convertible as the cover seeped into the car’s interior. Qwess guided his father to the end of the fleet and removed the tarp to reveal a shiny maroon Cadillac XLR with the top reclined. It was complete with twenty-inch chrome factory rims. He passed the keys to his father.
“You bought me a Cadillac!” Khalid said, astonished. “You remembered?”
“Of course. I know you love your Cadillacs.”
Khalid frowned. “But it’s a convertible. What’s up with that?”
“I know you don’t like convertibles, Dad. Check this out.” Qwess pushed a button on the keyless remote and the hardtop slowly ascended from the trunk. “I’m the same way about ’verts, but this ain’t that old El-dog you had. Technology has improved.”
Qwess and his father shared a laugh at the thought of Khalid’s old ’79 Eldorado. Khalid marveled at how far things had come since he had been gone. During sentencing, the judge told him cars would be flying before he came home. The judge was being sarcastic, but he wasn’t far off. Convertible hardtops and shit. Khalid hugged his son again.
“I’m proud of you, son. You’ve come a long way on your own. Now I’m ready to help you with all you got going on.”
“Nope,” Qwess interrupted, shaking his head. “You’ve been gone for a while. You deserve a vacation that’s not government-sponsored. I remember how you used to say you regret not taking care of yourself and going to see other parts of the world when you was making all that money. Well, Mom expressed the same sentiment over the years. So, for the next six months, you both are officially on vacation at my expense. When you come back you can start as counsel for the label.”
Khalid was beyond word. “I don’t know what to say.”
“How about thanks? I know you; you gonna try to get out of it, but, Pop, I want to do this. You more than deserve it.”
Khalid knew his son was as strong-willed as he was and wasn’t taking no for an answer. Therefore, resistance was futile. He simply agreed.
The band could be heard playing Isaac Hayes outside the garage. Neither Qwess nor his fathe. . .
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