A Gangsta's Son by Rio Read Free Book Online

You’ll make a killin’ wit’ those prices.”
    Lying back in the passenger’s seat of my Monte Carlo with my fingers interlaced behind my head while Kisha steered the new chrome 26-inch rims through the west side streets, I was trying to hide the fact that I was still angry about the GDs not wanting me at my father’s funeral.
    I sat up and glanced around the street—we were soaring down Independence Boulevard—then said, “Ain’t nobody sellin’ bricks for no fourteen racks. Can’t even get half a brick for fourteen.” 
    Kisha sighed and sucked her teeth. “Haven’t you heard of the Matamoros Cartel in Mexico? I watched an episode about their war with the Zeta Cartel on Gangland. The Matamoros drug cartel is now considered to be the number one trafficker of heroin and cocaine in South America, and a lot of people believe the Matamoros Cartel is the Costilla Cartel. If King-Royce is plugged with them, then he probably is selling kilos for fourteen thousand.” She turned to me with a reluctant expression on her face. “I, uh… have his number somewhere in my locker at the strip club. I can drop by and get it if they haven’t cleaned out my locker yet. Or I can call the dancer who introduced me to him. I think I still got her number in my phone.”
    I shrugged my shoulders and lit a Newport. “I don’t give a fuck. Just get me to 15 th and Homan so I can check on my lil nigga Tyrone. He just got out the hospital last night.”
    Kisha dialed a number on her smartphone and a few seconds later she said, “Hello, is this Lacresha?”
    **********
    There were over twenty teenaged gangbangers posted up on 15 th and Homan when Kisha parked the Monte Carlo behind my nigga Tweet’s old school Cutlass; the red 1969 Oldsmobile had black rally stripes, black leather interior with red stitching, and a matching set of black 30-inch rims that hurt my pride a little as I stepped out to a barrage of TVL handshakes. The “ballers” of the clique—Tweet, Zo, and Roddy—embraced me first. Then came the young niggas, like Dre, Shorty Hustle, and Joe-Joe.
    “Here you go, Joe,” Joe-Joe said as he handed me a wrinkled and folded knot of cash. I had given him three ounces of crack four days ago for him and his crew to get rid of, and he owed me $3,300.
    “How much is this,” I asked.
    “Thirty-three hun’ed,” Joe-Joe said. “Sold the last of that shit the other day. Been sellin’ Kush sacks and boy since then. Ain’t shit gettin’ sold right now, though. We just whooped one of the Breeds on Sixteenth. They talkin’ about comin’ back on gunplay.”
    Shaking my head, I looked to my right and smiled at Tyrone as he came walking up the sidewalk with his arm in a sling. I watched him and he watched me, while everyone else admired and talked about the new rims on my Chevy.
    “Damn nigga, you ridin’ on sixes now?” Tyrone said with a grin.
    “You and Joe-Joe get in the car,” I said, handing him the cash Joe-Joe had just given me. “Do whatever you wanna do with that. I got somethin’ else for you, too.”
    “You don’t owe me a dime, bruh. I did that ‘cause I fuck witchoo,” Tyrone said as I opened my passenger’s door and slid the seat forward so they could get in.
    Suddenly, the piercing sound of screeching tires interrupted the serene street. A white Lincoln came barreling down Homan and two young nigg as with dreads and dark faces were hanging out the passenger’s side windows with assault rifles gripped tightly in their hands.
    My Glock with the fifty-round drum was folded into my seat; Kisha was scrolling down her Facebook page on her phone; Tyrone and Joe-Joe were just getting situated in the backseat.
    I grabbed the Glock, ducked into the backseat, and aimed at the rapidly approaching Town Car just as the dread-headed gunmen opened fire.
    PHOP PHOP PHOP PHOP PHOP PHOP PH OP PHOP PHOP PHOP PHOP PHOP
    The gunshots from their assault rifles were so loud that I hardly heard the boom of my Glock as