DeShawn sipped his beer. A blue-clad form in the easy chair shifted in his sleep, passed gas, and sighed. DeShawn ignored it. Put five brothers in a room, he figured one of them had to fart eventually. Plus, it wasn’t healthy to hold that stuff inside.
The beer was flat, so he screwed the cap back on the bottle and walked into the messy kitchen. He opened the fridge and put the bottle on the bottom rack, where it was coldest. He knew that because unlike most of his crew in the other room, DeShawn had finished high school. He even flirted with going to college, though he never told anyone. In his world, saying he wanted to go to college was along the same lines as telling everyone he was gay or something. The reaction would not have been congratulatory.
Besides, he wouldn’t be where he was now, running his own crew. Taking River City for serious bank every goddamn day.
He smiled and closed the refrigerator. Then he thought about Ronnie again and scowled. What in the hell was he going to do about him and Little La La? Maybe if he had Ronnie take care of the-
KA-BLAM!
DeShawn jumped. “What the fuck?” he yelled, and took a step toward the living room.
Another blast exploded through the front window. Glass flew across the room. The groggy gang members instinctively dove for the floor and huddled behind furniture.
DeShawn dropped into a crouch. He reached into his waistband and pulled out the 9 mm Glock he kept tucked there. His hand trembled with adrenaline. He took a deep breath and told himself to relax.
The sound of squealing tires echoed through the shattered windows.
“Motherfuckers is doin’ a drive-by,” he said in a low tone. His voice carried in the silence of the room. “Some gonna be dead motherfuckers,” he added for the benefit of his boys.
For a long moment no one moved. DeShawn listened carefully, but all he could hear was the racing whine of a small engine descending in the distance. He waited another few seconds, then motioned toward the sprawling figures on the floor of the living room. “Any o’ y’all hit?”
There was a pause, then a general murmur in the negative.
DeShawn rose. “Well, then, get yo’ asses off the motherfucking floor and check it out,” he snapped. He turned and strode quickly back to the bedroom to check on Little La La. He found the girl sitting up in bed, blinking in confusion.
“What is it, Dee?” she asked him.
Relieved, DeShawn slipped his gun into his waistband. He sat on the edge of the bed and kissed her on the forehead. “Don’t you worry none. Just some broke-ass wannabes taking a shot at the title.”
“Huh?”
“Bad guys,” he told her. “Go back to sleep.”
She nodded and slid beneath the covers. DeShawn was pretty sure she was back asleep before he left the room.
He returned to the now empty living room. The front door stood open, and he made his way toward it. He’d almost reached the threshold when the sharp crack of automatic gunfire erupted in the night. He dropped to the ground but the rounds weren’t landing near him. He saw the muzzle flashes from behind parked cars across the street. The shooters fired in controlled bursts, their bullets tearing into the assembled group of gang bangers in the front yard.
DeShawn watched in horror as his boys scrambled for cover. One did a grotesque, shuddering chicken dance before flopping to the ground.
Almost as soon as the gunfire started, it ended. A van appeared in front of the house and slowed to a near stop. Three shooters materialized from their positions of cover and walked purposefully toward the van. The side door slid open and the first gunman climbed inside.
Rage washed over DeShawn. These motherfuckers were not getting away! He tore his nine from his waistband, pointed, and cranked off three quick rounds.
He was instantly rewarded with a long burst of gunfire. Bullets tore up the doorframe and bit into the ground in front of him. He heard the whizzing whine of a ricochet off the concrete steps.
The van continued slowly along the street. The two gunmen still outside moved next to it, using it as cover. Every couple of seconds, one of them stepped from behind the van and sent a few rounds in his direction. He’d seen this tactic somewhere before, but couldn’t remember where. Then the man inside the van started firing at him and he rolled to his left.
A few more rounds peppered the house. One of the men shouted something in a guttural tone. Then came the sound of slamming doors and an accelerating engine.
DeShawn lay still for a long moment, shell-shocked. The distant wail of sirens brought him out of it. He cursed and clambered to his feet. The wooden doorframe was chewed up from the gunfire-chunks were missing, and splintered edges pointed out at sharp angles.
There was a long, painful moan from the front yard, but DeShawn ignored it. He had to take care of his gun first. He went out into the yard, where two of his boys lay on the ragged grass. One, Sweaty, twisted and turned while he moaned in pain. The other lay still.
DeShawn peered closer at the still body. It was Ronnie.
Shit, DeShawn thought. A pang of grief jumped up in his chest. Not for the dumb-ass punk on the grass, but for his little cousin. La La was going to take it hard.
The sirens drew closer.
Gotta do what I gotta do.
DeShawn wiped the grip of his gun with his shirt, then squatted next to Ronnie and tucked the pistol into his slack hand.
“Sorry, G,” he whispered. “You was never shit, but at least you can die like a good soldier.”
He wanted to know who got away and who got hit. It was also important to know right now who fought back, because if he didn’t, he knew there’d be plenty of lying going on about it later. He moved away from the fallen boy and tried to survey the yard, but it was too dark, and he couldn’t see anything.
The yelp of the police siren burst onto the street and the patrol car screeched to a halt.
DeShawn held his hands in the air. He didn’t want some nervous cop busting a cap on him. Not after surviving the assault he’d just been through.
He glanced down at Ronnie’s still body. As sad as Little La La was going to be, this did solve the problem. Of course, now DeShawn had a host of new problems to deal with, ones that wouldn’t be quite so simple.
A young officer approached slowly, his shotgun leveled at DeShawn. “Police!” he shouted. “Don’t move!”
“Easy,” DeShawn told him. “I’m the motherfuckin’ victim here.”
0614 hours
Thomas Chisolm stood next to the gang banger, his pen poised above his open notepad.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“I go by Dee.”
“That’s great,” Chisolm said, “but what’s your name?”
The man gave him a hard look, then answered, “DeShawn Brown.”
Chisolm scribbled the name on his notepad. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he had to admire the man’s composure. He’d just been shot at with high-powered automatic rifles, seen one of his buddies killed and another wounded, and yet he didn’t seem too shaken up. Chisolm had seen his type before, both in the military and since coming on the job. There was a simple word for it. The man was a warrior. Too bad he was throwing his life away being a gangbanger maggot.
“What happened next?” he asked.
DeShawn pointed. “A van pulled up right over there. Them motherfuckers wit guns came out of their hiding places and walked to it. Then they-”
“Wait a minute. They walked to the van?”
“That’s what I said. You need a hearing aid, pops?”
Chisolm glared at him. DeShawn blinked and stared back. Chisolm shook his head. “Just answer my questions. I’m trying to help you here.”