Checkmate: The Baddest Chick (21 page)

****

In Brooklyn, Cross wasn’t known too well, but uptown, he felt like he had enemies even within his own circle. Ever since they’d hit Eduardo, killing a few of his men and stealing over a million dollars in drugs and cash, Cross had sense to lay low and play his cards right. Eduardo was a major figure, so a hit on him was always going to have repercussions for everyone involved. When Cross heard about the massacre of Kola’s crew in Yonkers, he immediately knew the order had come from Eduardo. It was payback.

The Colombians were ruthless, but Cross was ready to fight back. If Eduardo was going to be looking for him, then he would also be hunting for Eduardo. Cross put out the word for his goons—fifty gunmen on the street at top dollar—to be on the hunt for Eduardo night and day. Cross was still upset Eduardo had fucked Kola. He knew that Eduardo could only get at Kola because he, himself, was unfaithful. That was the only reason Kola was still breathing. Kola could get a pass; Eduardo could not.

When Cross saw Kola at the funeral, he’d tried to console her, but she’d made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with him. That upset him. He went on his way, but not before he noticed Edge talking to her. Cross suspected something was going on. His instincts were telling him that Edge was plotting something, so he knew he had to keep a close eye on his once best friend and right-hand man.

But when Cross had gotten the phone call about Edge, he was still devastated. An associate of theirs had called him in the early morning and said, “Yo, they got your boy a few hours ago. Shot four times.”

“What?”

“Edge is dead, Cross,” the voice said.

As soon as Cross heard about Edge, he thought about Eduardo. He thought that Edge was caught slipping and got hit up easily.

Cross stood still with the cell phone clutched in his hand. Edge was gone. They had known each other for so many years, the two were inseparable and invincible around each other. They’d been through thick and thin—blood and tears—and dominated the streets and drug game. They’d had rifts and arguments, but they were like brothers. They always had each other’s back, and each one trusted the other with his life. Now one of his driving forces was gone.

A sudden panic spread through him, but he kept his composure. His empire was crumbling, brick by brick. But he had a safety net set up to prevent his financial collapse.

Cross knew that if he was going down, he was going down fighting and not alone. If Eduardo wanted a war, then he was going to get one. Cross had power and reach in certain areas too.

****

Cross continued to hold and play with, his son. Jeremy was a pleasant distraction from his problems in the streets. His son’s smiling face and gentle form put him in a world at ease. He loved being a father. He had planned on spending the day with his family, but business and Edge’s murder were constantly playing in his head.

He looked over at Cynthia. “I gotta make a run back into Harlem tonight,” he said.

“For what?”

“I gotta pick up some money, and I gotta see what went down.”

Cynthia heaved a sigh. “I want you to stay home tonight, Cross. You need to be here with us, not on them streets.”

“I gotta take care of some business, Cynthia. Understand that.”

“Doesn’t your friend’s murder tell you something, Cross? It’s not safe for you in Harlem.”

“I’ma be good. I always watch my back, and I’ll be back. I promise.”

Cynthia was tired of hearing it.

“Give me my baby,” she said, reaching for her son.

“Why you actin’ like a bitch?”

“’Cuz you stupid, Cross!”

“You like the way you live, Cynthia?” he asked with frustration. “Well, if you wanna continue living like this, then I gotta go out there and grind and make myself known. I can’t allow Edge’s death to make me look weak. It ain’t fuckin’ happening.”

“I’m not planning your funeral, Cross,” she replied dryly.

Cross sighed. He went into the bedroom to change clothes and make a few phone calls. He really didn’t like her last remark. The one thing you never say to a street nigga is you’re not going to plan his funeral. That was a bad omen Cross didn’t want any part of. He hated to compare Cynthia to Kola, but Kola would’ve never said stupid shit like that. She knew better.

Cynthia sat on the couch holding her son, looking worried about Cross leaving. But she knew that there was nothing she could do to stop him.

Cross stepped out of the bedroom clad in dark attire—black jeans along with a black shirt, and a do-rag on his head. Cynthia noticed the butt of a gun peeking from underneath his shirt, tucked snugly in his waistband.

He observed her eyes and pulled his shirt down to better conceal the 9 mm.

“Look, I’ll be right back. I promise you, Cynthia,” Cross assured.

Cynthia remained silent and frustrated, her body language and attitude obvious.

Cross walked over to her, crouched down in front of her, and stared into her worried eyes. “You gonna be OK. But I gotta go out there and see what went down, and handle my business.”

“You ain’t gotta do shit!”

“You so fuckin’ ignorant, Cynthia! I swear.”

Cross calmed his temper. He then stood up and placed a key on the coffee table. Cynthia looked down at it. She didn’t ask any questions about the key, but he wanted to let her know about it.

“That’s a key to a storage locker on Atlantic Avenue—512. If something was to happen to me, you take that key, go to the storage locker, and everything in it belongs to you. You take what you can, and leave with my son. Go somewhere far.”

Cynthia remained quiet. She didn’t want to hear it.

“You understand me? You leave here immediately.”

Cross then made his exit, and when the door shut behind him, Cynthia’s tears began to fall as she held Jeremy in her arms. She had a bad feeling about tonight, and in her heart, she knew Cross wasn’t coming back.

****

Cross drove his truck across the Brooklyn Bridge and made it into the bowels of Harlem late in the night. Cross wanted to be cautious. He wanted to keep a low profile, nothing flashy. He’d removed the chrome rims from his truck and replaced them with regular factory tires. His windows were tinted slightly, but not so dark as to attract the attention of the police. He carried the 9 mm and a .38 in his ride as he navigated through Harlem slowly, doing the speed limit.

He pulled up in front of a dilapidated bodega on Eighth Avenue. Before Cross got out, he checked his surroundings and got out his truck with the gun tucked snugly in his jeans. He entered the empty bodega. The young boy behind the counter noticed Cross and nodded.

“He in the back?” Cross asked.

The young boy nodded.

Cross was about to go into the back room when he heard the boy from the counter say, “Yo, Cross, I heard what happened to Edge. Yo, I’m sorry about that.”

Cross didn’t acknowledge the boy’s statement. He continued walking toward the back, passing piles of boxes and milk crates, and other stocked store goods. He came across a black steel door. He glanced up at the camera to show his face, and he was buzzed in.

An armed, muscled goon greeted him when he stepped inside. The man nodded, showing Cross respect. “Yo, sorry about Edge,” the goon said.

Cross didn’t say a word. He moved deeper into the illegal room, where dozens of guns were displayed in large crates to be either shipped or sold. It wasn’t his business.

Cross spotted Tiko seated in a leather recliner chair behind his large oak desk with the phone to his ear. Tiko motioned for Cross to come closer and take a seat, and he did.

The discreet back room was windowless and had brick walls, but it was decorated stylishly with state-of-the-art surveillance equipment, posh furniture, and a flat-screen catty-cornered near Tiko’s desk.

Cross took a seat across from Tiko and waited patiently for him to end his phone call.

Tiko’s deep, raspy voice boomed through the phone. His graying beard was trimmed neatly, and he was clad in a chic brown suit. Tiko was a wise, handsome, aging hustler, and his fifty years didn’t show.

Tiko was finally done with his phone call and focused his undivided attention on Cross, who he’d always looked at like a son. “What brings you here, Cross? Is this about Edge?”

“We fucked up, Tiko.”

“With what?”

“I let my emotions run wild for this bitch.”

“Kola?”

“Yeah, and I did a stupid a thing. Really stupid,” Cross quickly said.

“How stupid?”

“We got at Eduardo, killed a few of his men, and stole money and weight from his Jersey City operation.”

“You did what?”

“I was caught up, Tiko. I had Edge in my ear talking and shit. I thought Eduardo was fuckin’ my bitch.”

“Was he?”

“I don’t know, but she was spending too much time at his place.”

“So you didn’t know for sure, but you still acted. You a fool, Cross. You allowed pussy to fuck with your head, made you do a stupid thing. So you think Edge’s death is retaliation?”

“Most likely, but I’m not sure. I’ve been keeping a low profile, staying in Brooklyn with Cynthia and my son.”

Tiko exhaled noisily, his dark eyes fixed on Cross. “You stay in Brooklyn then and continue laying low. But what do you need from me, youngblood?”

“I need more soldiers . . . some thorough muthafuckas to join forces with my crew, just in case. And some guns. High powered shit that will blow a nigga’s brain from here to hell.”

“Consider it done,” Tiko said.

“I got goons hunting for that bean-and-rice-eating muthafucka, Tiko.”

“Eduardo will not be killed by some Harlem Street thugs. He’s too smart and advanced for that.”

“Whatever. I know if any of his soldiers set foot uptown, I’m gonna be on them.”

“And then what? I told you about the violence, Cross. I told you to work things out with Chico. But you don’t listen to me. You are a hardheaded muthafucka, and now you got yourself backed into a corner. And you’re ready to shoot your way out, thinking it’s gonna solve your situation.”

“I gotta do what I gotta do, Tiko. You sell guns. How you preach about no violence when the business you in is about violence?”

Cross thought that Tiko was being hypocritical. After all, Tiko ran an illegal gun operation that stretched all the way into Miami.

“Let me tell you something, youngblood. You think I’m contradicting myself, but one thing you need to get straight—I don’t shit where I eat. Two, I’m a businessman, and I sell a product, not death. You niggas gonna continue to kill each other no matter what I say, so I might as well get paid from it. But I don’t want that heat around me. Murder is always a major headline.”

Cross couldn’t argue with Tiko. Tiko had been his mentor for years, and the aging hustler had looked out for him plenty of times.

“But I got your guns for you,” Tiko said.

Cross thanked him.

“But, Cross, this is the last favor you’ll get from me. No more. You’re too hot right now, and I’m not trying to get caught up in your war or bullshit. So you take these guns from me and a couple soldiers who wanna ride on your team, and we part ways from here. Your beef with Eduardo, I don’t want any part of.”

Cross nodded and understood.

They made arrangements for Tiko to drop off some guns for Cross’ soldiers on the streets. Cross walked out the bodega and was very cautious about his surroundings. The corners were calm—no drunks, no gamblers, or hustlers about. But Cross knew that sometimes things weren’t what they appeared to be. He kept his reach near his gun and walked toward his truck. He hopped in and started the ignition. He wanted to be in and out of Harlem ASAP. One more stop to make and then it was back over the bridge and into Brooklyn.

He slowly pulled off and made a right onto 145th Street. He looked through his rearview mirrors and noticed he was being tailed by a black Maxima with tinted windows. He couldn’t tell how many occupants were inside the car.

“Fuck!” he uttered.

Not knowing what to expect, Cross placed the 9 mm in his lap and had it ready for action if needed. He drove his vehicle to a crawl and came to a stop at a red light, his heart rate tripling from anxiety. He constantly glanced at his rearview mirror. The car had been on him since he’d left the bodega.

When the light changed to green, he sped out. The Maxima raced behind him, and then suddenly Cross noticed the police lights flashing behind him, pulling him over to the curb.

“Fuck!” Cross shouted. He stopped the truck and threw the 9 mm into the center console and tried to act normal.

Three plainclothes officers approached his truck, their hands on their holstered weapons, and their eyes fixed on the driver and his ride.

“License and registration,” one of the cops said as he flashed his badge. He had his eyes steadied on Cross and his movements.

The other two officers shined their lights into his truck, looking for anything suspicious.

“What’s wrong, officer?” Cross asked.