Tick, Tick, Boom! Read online

  “Ought to what? You ought to what, ho-ass nigga? Shut the entire fuck up and be a man?”

  Instead of being terrified, O.T. was amused. He laughed as he responded to the unexpected interruption to his day. “Come the hell on. Get yourself out that fantasy you and your crew be so deep off into. What in the fuck do you know about being a damn man? Matter of fact, get the fuck on, bitch. I got business to take care of inside and I ain’t got time for this little gangsta moment you having!”

  “You and ya fake-ass brother think y’all can go around ruining people lives, huh? You and him thinking it ain’t no consequences to that bullshit y’all do, but trust when I tell you it fucking is. And you gonna pay; today.”

  “Listen, you twisted-hearted piece of garbage,” O.T. bossed up boldly shouting loud enough for the Mexicans working on the block to hear. “If I’m supposed to be scared because you got a little gun, then you dead-ass wrong this go-around. The way my bloodline is set up, being a sucker is impossible. Now if you gonna do something, then strap on your nuts, pretend you man enough to do it, or beat it, you feel me? But just know I’m gonna hunt ya black ass down until the day I die for coming out here to my brother’s crib like you some gangsta on a mission.”

  “Oh, yeah, you real tough right about now while I’m holding this gun. Who in the hell you think you is, some ghetto, nappy-headed Superman or something, like you can’t bleed blood?”

  “Fuck you with ya bitch ass. I guess you officially ain’t man enough, huh?” O.T. spat on the front grass before turning around to head for the condo’s front door.

  Hearing him making threats, acting as if he were untouchable and above getting got, the hooded driver easily pulled the trigger. Once, twice, three times, then four. Each one seemed louder than the last. The thunderous echo of a total of eight loud gunshots filled the air. As each silver-colored shell casing hit the concrete, sheer pandemonium ensued. Quickly taking cover behind trucks, trees, bushes, and garbage cans, innocent bystanders were forced to bear witness to what could only be described as tragic. O.T.’s body jerked, absorbing bullet after bullet before hitting the ground. Seconds later the hooded shooter jumped back in the car and recklessly sped off.

  As the stunned spectators emerged from the safety of whatever they’d found to seek refuge with, getting out of harm’s way, they couldn’t believe their eyes. The driver of the first car that came barreling down the block only minutes earlier was sprawled out in a flower-lined driveway. It was more than easy to see he had bullet holes seemingly everywhere on his body. With clots of blood trickling from the corner of his lips, his condition was definitely dire. This type of thing never happened in this exclusive gated community, so many were terrified, stunned, and speechless.

  Gaining courage after making sure the shooter was long gone, some of the bolder neighbors who were now in their own front yards cautiously approached O.T. With their cordless phones in hand, some called 911 begging for an ambulance and, of course, the police. O.T. was potentially bleeding out, struggling to breathe.

  The elderly homeowner of the driveway, old Mrs. Farrow, went to knock on Storm and Kenya’s door. She knew that if they were home, despite the sounds of a radio playing through the door, they’d certainly have heard the loud barrage of gunfire. It’d interrupted their otherwise quiet community. The elderly neighbor opted to knock just the same. Recognizing O.T. as one of their frequent visitors, she felt it was the right thing to do.

  She pounded her clenched fist several times then waited. Mrs. Farrow repeated the act a few more times. Getting no answer, the woman, known as the neighborhood busybody, rejoined the others. Trying to make the young man as comfortable as possible while they waited for the ambulance, they all relived the surprise misfortune. Thankfully, minutes later, help arrived. O.T., fighting to live so he could help London raise his brother’s baby, was rushed to the nearest hospital.

  “We losing him. Shit, we losing him. Damn, hurry,” the EMT panicked as the gauge on the heart monitor wildly beeped, signaling time was crucial. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, he’s about to go into shock. He’s lost so much blood, and his vitals are crazy.” Coming to the realization that life was rapidly fading away from the victim of multiple bullet wounds he was treating, the trained technician faced the cold, hard facts. Limited in what procedures he could perform in transit, the man nervously checked his watch. “If we don’t get him stabilized in the next two to three minutes, this boy is as good as dead. These gaping holes need dealing with now! He’s choking on his own fluids. Hurry!”

  “I know. I hear the machines back there going berserk. I radioed ahead for a team to be waiting because we need top priority as soon as we pull in.” With his partner trying everything to save the young man’s life, the ambulance driver ran through the red lights with sirens blaring. Listening to the agonizing sounds of the wounded victim gagging, he pressed the gas pedal to the floor. With the hospital finally in sight, he roared into the emergency room entrance with a prayer in his heart.

  Surrounded by doctors as well as a police detective, the grim reality set in about what the outcome would be. It was beyond hard to be positive as O.T.’s motionless, bullet-riddled body was removed from the rig. Strapped to a gurney, face pale as a ghost, he was rushed into the triage area. His bloodied clothes were cut off and tossed into clear plastic bags. Along with the combination of several needles roughly stuck in his skin, IV bags were hung to the side. Barely finding a heartbeat, they immediately pressed an oxygen mask on his face. O.T., a certified hood warrior, remained unconscious, not making a sound.

  “Okay, what do we have?” The senior trauma surgeon on staff entered the chaotic room. He hoped for the best but expected the worst. “What’s the initial damage and what are his vitals? Everyone please don’t speak at once.”

  “Doctor, from what we can tell, he has suffered five gunshot wounds in total. Three seem to have gone in and out through his lower extremities. Thank God those three don’t seem to be life-threatening. Yet, since the patient has yet to speak, the possibility of spinal damage is still very much possible,” Head Trauma Nurse Jamison, who had seen it all throughout the years, gravely reported from her first evaluation. “However, the other two bullets appear to have struck major organs, one possibly ripping right through his kidney. From what the first responders tell me was the amount of blood on the scene, along with the massive amounts lost while he was being transported, I’m more than extremely concerned. His breathing is almost nonexistent. His pressure is also low.”

  Putting white rubber gloves on, Dr. Wang sternly ordered all unnecessary persons immediately outside of the triage examination room. As if on cue, O.T. went into violent convulsions. His arms wildly flung while his muscle-chiseled chest heaved upward and down at a rapid pace.

  “Remember, Doc, if he says anything I need to know, and any slugs you might be lucky enough to recover—”

  “Listen, Officer whatever your name is, I’m trying to save this man’s life. Anything else is secondary to me. Now, like I just told everyone else, leave and let me do my job.” Dr. Wang angrily turned his back on the unsympathetic cop. His first priority was to focus on his patient, who was officially identified by the pushy policeman as twenty-three-year-old Othello Terrence Christian, a target of several criminal investigations throughout the years.

  When the double steel doors of the emergency room swung shut, the officer took out his cell phone, calling his superior. “Hey, Malloy, it’s me. Yeah, man, they have that cocky motherfucker in the back right now working on him. But, from the looks of things to me, if that fool makes it to see the sunrise it’s gonna be nothing short of a goddamn miracle. It looks like that dyke done turned him into Swiss cheese and is about to send him to meet his Maker. Remind me not to send flowers to that bitch boy’s funeral or contribute to any fundraisers!”

  * * *

  Chief Detective Malloy shut his cell, sliding it back on the clip on his side. Looking at his partner, he smiled delivering the encouraging update. “
Oh, well, with that deranged lunatic Marco Meriwether finally in custody and one of the Christian brothers out of our hair, things are looking up on closing a lot of open cases. Now if we can put Storm out of commission, too, we’ll be batting a thousand.”

  “Don’t worry; he’s the next domino to fall in this game for sure. The surveillance team might have lost him for the time being, but bet five dollars to a bucket of shit, he’ll surface, especially since his brother is kicking down the devil’s door!”

  Having just arrived on the first of two very much still-active crime scenes, Malloy and Sergeant Kendricks got out of their unmarked vehicle. Raising the yellow tape, they approached the crashed rental Tangelina Marie Gibson had taken her final breath inside of after opening fire on O.T. A beige canvas tarp covered the body of the deceased as a small crowd of bystanders gathered on the still-damp street.

  “Okay, Officer. What exactly went down?” Malloy questioned, watching the water department finish sealing the hole where the fire hydrant once stood before getting barreled over.

  “Well, Detective, I was posted just like I was ordered to do.”

  “And?”

  “And I thought it was Marco. It looked just like him. He—I mean, she—fit the description.” The rookie undercover officer paced near Tangy’s dead body, which housed a police-issued slug right between the eyes. “The hood, the braids, damn, damn, damn!”

  “Listen, calm down and get back to the story.” Malloy tried to keep him focused on the details and only the details. “What went down exactly blow by blow?”

  Lighting a Marlboro cigarette to subdue his shaky nerves, he continued. “First she jumped out the car and ran up on him. They exchanged words; then she just opened fire on him, maybe seven or eight shots. I’m not sure!” His white, pale hands shook while taking a couple of pulls from his cigarette. “Then right after I told you to send backup, things really went berserk. The girl jumped back in the car! She just kept coming! She wouldn’t stop!”

  The officer had tossed the two-way radio on the passenger’s seat before posting up. Knocking over several garbage cans and hitting a car in an attempt to get away from the homicide that was just committed, the driver was faced with the undercover officer’s gun pointed directly at the windshield. “Stop or I’ll fucking shoot!” he’d said.

  Not paying attention to the officer’s threats, the car had barreled through the one-man barricade, leaving no other recourse but more gunshots to ensue. Losing control of the automobile after being fatally struck by one of the bullets, the driver had crashed into a fire hydrant and slumped over to the side of the passenger seat. As the cocky but nervous policeman, with his pistol still drawn, approached the vehicle through the heavy water flow spewing from the hydrant, he had cautiously opened the door, snatching the hood off the driver. As all the braids fell out of the hood, he got a good look at the deceased’s face.

  “I couldn’t believe it. A woman! I shot a goddamn woman!” He sat down as gawkers whispered, taking photos and videos with their cell phones.

  “Look, man, it was you or her from what you just said. It can’t be no holiday every day in our job. Death comes with the territory.” Malloy placed his hand on the officer’s shoulder. “And every cop’s main objective is to go home at night to their families. You didn’t kill the carpet-munching dyke.” He glanced over at the now bloodstained tarp. “She had a death wish and killed her-damn-self!”

  After getting the full rundown of the events leading up to the shooting and crash, the mood still seemed solemn. Even though Tangy thought she was every bit a man, she was still a female: a once-a-month-bleeding, emotional, unstable, jealous-hearted female. The fact that she appeared to attempt a premeditated murder and elude arrest offered no relief of guilt for the young Caucasian officer who was forced to take her obviously troubled life. With his face buried in his hands, Kendricks consolingly sat on the curb next to him.

  On to investigate the most important crime scene, Malloy made his way down the road. Walking toward the front yard of the condo belonging to Storm, he instantly grew angry at what he’d just heard. That crazy-ass girl robbed me of seeing the look on O.T.’s face when we arrested him and his older brother on conspiracy, racketeering, drug trafficking, and murder charges. I know I should be thanking her, but fuck; I had hours tied up in these damn cases!

  Observing his fellow officers conduct interviews with the Mexican landscaping crew who were witness to the shooting along with a few neighbors, Malloy stood near a trail of blood droplets on the concrete. With ten to twelve small cones marking important evidence to be collected, he was careful not to contaminate the area. Peering over at Storm’s undoubtedly high-priced condo, he wanted nothing more than to have his men kick the door in and search the premises for any weapons or drugs. However, for the time being, he couldn’t prove Storm, aka Tony Christian, had broken any laws, so the presumed empty dwelling was off-limits.

  “Okay, you guys. Check everything out with a fine-toothed comb; then let’s all meet back at the station. It ain’t no use in watching this location anymore. We’ll pick up the tail on Storm as soon as he shows up at the hospital to see about his brother.” Making sure a thorough investigation took place before he and his officers finally packed up leaving the crime scene, Malloy took one last good look at Storm’s condo. One day I’m gonna get that warrant, he promised himself, thinking he saw the closed drapes slightly move as he drove off. One damn day.

  * * *

  Slipping in and out of consciousness from losing so much blood, London was barely aware of what was going on. Now Kenya, the same person she’d deliberately taunted less than an hour ago, leaned down over her with the knife in her hands, lifting the newborn up. Taking the bread twists, she wrapped them tightly around the blood-filled umbilical cord and deviously smiled as she thought about Storm. Then vindictively glaring at her reflection in the shiny sides of the butcher knife, she cut it off, severing all ties the baby had with London.

  “Where you going with my baby?” a weak and drained London muttered as the gunshot wound continued to bleed. “Let me hold him. Let me hold my baby,” she begged as she started gagging on her own blood.

  “Your baby?” Kenya questioned, wrapping the crying infant in the dish towels. Dazed, she sat down in Storm’s favorite chair, rocking him in her arms as she watched her sister struggle to hold on to life. “You must have made a mistake. This is my baby, mine and Storm’s!”

  “But we’re family. We’re all we got. I love you, Kenya, please.” London sadly took her last breath.

  “Say u promise,” Kenya nonchalantly replied. She smirked, looking down toward the floor and ignoring the fact her twin sister had just died in front of her eyes because she opted not to get her any help. Those three little words might have seemed like nothing to most people, but for the twins, they meant the world. It was their bond. Their way of letting each other know they had the other’s back; no questions asked.

  But now it was different. Kenya felt London had crossed the line between them months ago when having sex with Storm. Whether or not Kenya believed the twisted tale her twin and supposed man told about the way the betrayal went down, Kenya couldn’t care less. Her sister chose to carry her man’s seed, so it was what it was and had been for months: war.

  Fast-forward to now. Kenya had officially lost it. She was full-blown deranged. There would be no turning back the hands of time. The pair of them could not sit on the steps of Gran’s house daydreaming about places they wanted to travel to. There would be no more sharing of ice cream cones. No more running up and down the block chasing behind the other or brushing of hair before bedtime. Their biological twin magic powers were dead. When London took her last breath and left the land of the living, Kenya’s spirit and soul were deceased but had yet to realize it.

  Turning the volume of the music up in an attempt to ignore the sounds of the frantic neighbor’s knocks who’d recognized O.T. as the gunshot victim, Kenya, who had obviously lost her mind, hummed to
her now deceased twin sister’s newborn son while she patiently waited for his daddy to return home so they could be one big, happy family. “Don’t worry, li’l one, your real mommy’s here with you.”

  Callously allowing her twin sister to die right before her eyes on the living room floor, Kenya seemed coldly unaware of what she’d truly just done. She rocked back and forth with London’s defenseless newborn tucked in her arms, and the knocks at the front door soon stopped. As the smooth sounds of jazz flowed throughout the room, Kenya cried staring down at her nephew, Storm’s son. Despite what anybody says, you belong to me! I deserved to have had you, not that man-stealing bitch over there! She nodded toward London. Storm loves me! Not her, me! Even though I can’t have no babies, he loves me! Taking her still blood-covered hands Kenya used her fingertips to trace the tiny outline of the baby’s lips. “Look at you,” she softly spoke to him. “You got those big brown eyes just like my Gran used to have. And look at all that wavy hair.”

  The last track on the CD finally played. When the music stopped, Kenya kinda snapped out of her strange, oblivious trance, squinting her eyes. Seeing her twin sister with a bullet hole in her shoulder and a messy combination of blood and afterbirth spilled out between her still-open legs, it hit her like a ton of bricks. Quickly leaping up, Kenya laid the infant still wrapped in dishrags down on the couch, and she peeped back out the window. Damn, who in the hell got hurt? She quickly closed the drapes after seeing the crowd of people move out of the way so an ambulance could get through. But who gives a sweet fuck? I got my own bullshit to deal with right now.

  Interrupting her selfish thoughts of me, me, me, Storm’s son started to wiggle on the couch. Momentarily thinking clearly for the first time since smacking the dog shit out of London, Kenya knew she had to get the infant some much-needed medical attention. Leaning over London’s still body, Kenya broke all the way down as she checked for a pulse. “Oh my God! What did I just fucking do? I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” she sobbed, holding London’s limp hand and knowing a piece of herself would forever be missing. Apologizing in one breath while still going hard in the next, Kenya trembled as she spoke. “I didn’t mean it! I promise I didn’t! But why did you have to keep that baby? Why? Why? You knew that shit was foul! You know he didn’t rape you!”