Street Rap Read online

  STREET RAP

  SHAUN SINCLAIR

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Part 1 - Crew Business . . .

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part 2 - The Next Level . . .

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part 3 - The Start of the Ending

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  DAFINA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by Shaun Sinclair

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Dafina and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2102-0

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2103-7

  eISBN-10: 1-4967-2103-9

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: October 2018

  This book is dedicated to my brother, Anthony Sinclair. Your love of hip-hop was passed down to me. Your love of the streets was embraced by me. This book is a marriage of the two. Rest easy, Big Bro!

  Acknowledgments

  As always, all praises due to the Most High, Most Merciful, the Creator of all things in existence, Grand Architect of the Universe. I am continuously humbled at the blessing to be able to write the things I envision in my mind, and bring them to life as words that inspire, entertain, and enlighten my people. If not for this craft, I would probably go crazy with all the characters living in my head. Thankfully, I have been given a platform to stay sane.

  Thanks to my family for supporting me throughout my literary journey. You have always been and continue to be my biggest supporters. To my mom, Brenda, you are the strongest woman I know. You have taken everything that life has thrown at you and used it to stand even higher on your pedestal as a queen. To my Big Sis, Mishell, I always say that I owe you because if you had not taken the time to type this very book, then I probably would have never picked up another pen again. My Big Bro Roy, you remain one of the most thorough dudes I know. To my lil’ Big Sis, Sheryl, you’ve always had my back, always supporting me and never judging me, no matter what. For that I am eternally grateful. To my brother Anthony, aka Ant Live, although you have transcended to chill with the ancestors, I know that you are still proud of me. I know that every time I do something cool, every time I do something amazing, it is you and your example I am following. To my Pops, Johnny Gore, I’m honored to follow in the footsteps of Black Gangster. Alhamdulillah! To my sons, Shaun and Supreme, you remain my biggest motivation, because part of being a good father is leading by example. I hope I do you proud. To Amanda, Lord knows we don’t always see eye-to-eye, but regardless, we always put our differences aside for the sake of our child. You have never tried to prevent me from being a father to Daddy, and for that I am eternally grateful. To Qima, you have always had my back and supported my dreams. We loved each other the best way we knew how, and for that I am eternally grateful. We have always loved each other, and we always will. Love is love. To Gwen and Ted, Trey, Gayle, Shajuania, Shinika. You know what? I’m going to just say the whole Sinclair clan because all of you, in your own way, helped me out on this journey.

  To the block . . . Atlantic Beach stand up!!! Words cannot express the amount of gratitude I have for you guys. All of you have shown me so much love and support, and that encourages me to go that much harder. My lil bro, Joey Sinclair, Omar, Tody, Asiatic, Squirrel, A.B., Tip, Steph, Tootie, Keisha, Teresa, Tommy Gunn (R.I.H.), Snipes, Mama Mima, just to name a few.

  Thanks to my Metro family, Neek, Rahlo, Milly, Chamon-dra, Ronnie, Woosie, Quon, and Yoshi. Special thanks to my big brother from another, Mr. Darvyn “Saadiq” Higgins, and his beautiful wife, Angela.

  To my ATL family, Tameeka and Rodney, Muhammed, Amin, Tisa, and many others. Special massive big up to Em Edge, my homie, my partner, and the talented designer of all my book covers, and game-changing book trailers. Special thanks to Kisha Green. You keep me popping in the cyber world and we did a great thing with Digital Foreplay. Much more to come!

  Special thanks to all the authors keeping this thing going, particularly some of those I rock with real hard. Shaunta Kenerly, John Bowens, Jo Dee Sanders and Kenitra Jordan (R.I.H.), Yolanda Arrington, Honesti, Tamika Newhouse, Ni’cola Mitchell, Nene Capri, and a special salute to the legend himself, Mr. Al-Saadiq Banks. This is one of the most authentic, knowledgeable, humble brothers I’ve had the privilege of knowing. Still the same from Day One!

  Thanks to all the brothers in the belly of the beast. L.B., Allworld Eddie Mack, Jaba, Marc Majeed, Wack, Hanif Adisa, and any brother I’ve had the pleasure of meeting along the way. Every time I put the pen to the paper, I have you in mind. I am you, you are me. Keep your head up.

  Last, but certainly not least, I want to thank the readers. Without you, there would be no me. I know that dollars are important in this economy, so the fact that you take a chance on me is humbling. I feel appreciated and I don’t take your time for granted. When I sit down at my laptop, my goal is to craft a classic tale, something that you can give to your kids and their kids, something that will ring true to the era in which we live. Hit me up on Twitter, or IG. @IamShaunSinclair and let me know if I achieved my goal. Peace!

  Prologue

  The courtroom was packed with spectators as everyone awaited the defendant’s arrival. All of the leading TV news crews were present, as this was sure to be the top story of the day. The prosecutor repeatedly checked his watch while glancing cutting looks at the judge.

  The defendant’s attorney was present as well, and obviously perturbed at the slight tardiness of his client. He had just spoken with him that morning, and his client had assured him he would be on time. He did not like to start a trial on a bad note, and being late on the first day showed a blatant disregard for the judicial system.

  Judge Epps looked over his half-moon spectacles to address the defense attorney. “Mr. Shabazz, if you’d like to take a brief recess to contact your client, feel free. However if he does not show by ten o’clock, we must go on.” Judge Epps raised his hands in surrender, then added, “The wheels of justice move on, regardless of tardiness.”

  Almost as if on cue, the outer doors of the courtroom burst open, and in walked the defendant, accompanied by a modest entourage.

  Mr. Shabazz stood, shot his cuffs, smoothed the lapels on his Italian suit, and greeted his client with a nervous chuckle. “Heh heh, you had me worried there for a second,” he whispered.

  “No need to worry,” his client returned. “Everything’s under control. Had a problem finding a parking space. Something’s going on real big somewhere in this courthouse. Could you believe there’s news people staked outside?”

  Mr. Shabaz
z had dealt with a lot of notorious criminals in his day, as he was one of the best defense attorneys around. However, he had never come in contact with a client such as this one. So young, yet so thorough. So smart, yet so . . . gangsta.

  Judge Epps tapped his gavel to gather court in session, immediately silencing the cacophony of sounds that had slowly crescendoed from the time the defendant had entered the courtroom. Judge Epps motioned for the prosecution to begin opening statements.

  Federal Prosecutor Long stood to address the court. He pulled his crimson tie as if adjusting it and polished the lenses in his Cartier spectacles with his silk handkerchief. He went through the whole rigmarole to appear very important. He knew the attorney general was present in the crowd, and he wanted to do his best to impress his boss. He began speaking in an authoritative tone.

  “Ladies and gentleman of the jury, I come to you today for justice. Justice for society. Justice for the victims—some nameless, as well as the victims named in this indictment. I even come to you for justice for the defendant, if the facts permit. However, the facts will show that for the past two years, the defendant has wreaked havoc upon the streets of the Carolinas. Just to make myself clear, when I say defendant, I am referring to the man sitting right there with the smug look on his face. Mr. . . .”

  The defendant sat and listened to the federal prosecutor with all of the surety he could muster. For unbeknownst to the federal prosecutor, judge, and even his own attorney, he had a ringer in the jury. He could guarantee he would walk. It was just a matter of time.

  Meanwhile, in the same courtroom, juror number six sweated profusely. He paid vague attention to the federal prosecutor. His thoughts were more on the note he had received upon coming to court today. He had already placed a call and verified the contents of the note. It simply read: “Your daughter’s tied up in a basement.”

  Juror number six told no one about the note, save family. He knew precisely what the note meant. He had been paying attention to the news coverage the trial was receiving. He knew exactly who had taken his daughter, and he knew exactly what it would take to get her back. And only in movies were people stupid enough to go against the grain.

  Part 1

  Crew Business . . .

  Chapter 1

  The black Tahoe crept onto the rooftop of the parking garage overlooking downtown Fayetteville and stopped. The driver lumbered his hefty frame out of the truck and stood to his full six-foot-seven-inch height. He flipped the collar up on his heavy mink coat, readjusted the sawed-off shotgun tucked beneath his arm, and scanned his surroundings for danger. Satisfied that the area was clear, he tapped on the passenger window of the truck. The tinted window eased down halfway, and a cloud of smoke was released into the air.

  “It’s clear,” the giant reported.

  “Good. Now go post up over there so you can see the street, make sure no funny biz popping off,” the man in the truck instructed.

  The giant hesitated a moment. “You sure about this? I mean, I don’t trust these dudes like that,” he said.

  The man smiled. “You worry too much, Samson. Nobody would dare violate this thing of ours again. Look around you, it’s just us and them. This is crew business, and this shit has gone on long enough. Tonight, it ends, one way or another.”

  The window glided up, and the giant assumed his position near the edge of the parking garage.

  Behind the dark glass of the Tahoe, two men sat in the back seat sharing a blunt while a brooding hip-hop track thumped through the speakers. The men casually passed the blunt and enjoyed the music as if they were at a party, and not on the precipice of a drug war for control of the city’s lucrative narcotics trade. Although partners, each of the men was a boss in his own right. Their leadership styles were different—one was fire, the other was ice—but it was the balance that made their team so strong.

  In the back seat of the Tahoe sat Qwess and Reece, leaders of the notorious Crescent Crew.

  “Yo, that beat is bananas, son!” Reece remarked to Qwess. “You did that?”

  Qwess nodded. “You knowww it,” he sang.

  “Word. You already wrote to it?”

  “I’m writing to it right now,” he replied. He pointed to his temple. “Right here.”

  “I hear ya, Jay-Z,” Reece joked. “So, anyway, how you want to handle this when these niggas get here?”

  Qwess nodded. “Let me talk some sense into them, let them know they violated.”

  “Son, they know they violated.”

  “Still, let me handle it, because you know how you can be.”

  Reece scowled. “How I can be? Fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “You know how you can be,” Qwess insisted.

  “What? Efficient?”

  “If you want to call it that.”

  Headlights bent around the corner and a dark gray H2 Hummer came into view. The Hummer drove to the edge of the garage and stopped inches in front of Samson. He spun around to face the truck. The giant, clad in a full-length mink, resembled King Kong in the glow of the xenon headlamps.

  Inside the truck, Qwess craned his head over the seat to confirm their guests. “That’s them,” he noted as he passed Reece the blunt. He climbed from the back of the truck and tossed his partner a smirk. “Stay here, I got it.”

  Qwess joined Samson while men poured out of the Hummer. When the men stood before Qwess, someone very important was absent.

  Qwess raised his palm. “Whoa, whoa, someone’s missing from this little shindig,” he observed, scanning the faces. “Where is Black Vic?”

  One of the minions stepped forward. He wore a bald head and a scowl. “Black Vic couldn’t be here tonight. He sends his regards.” The man thumbed his chest with authority. “He sent me in his place.”

  Qwess frowned. “He sent you in his place? Are you kidding me? We asked for a meeting with the boss of your crew, and he sends you?”

  The man nodded. “Yep.”

  Qwess shook his head. “Yo, get Black Vic on the phone and tell him to get his ass down here now.”

  The minion chuckled. “I see you got things confused, dawg. You run shit over there, not over here. Now are we talking or what?”

  Samson took a step forward. The other three men took two steps back. Qwess gently placed a hand on Samson’s arm. The giant stood down.

  “I need to talk to the man in charge,” Qwess insisted. “Because we only going to have this conversation one time.”

  “Word?”

  “Word!”

  Suddenly, the back door to the Tahoe was flung open, and all eyes shifted in that direction. Reece stepped out into the night and flung his dreads wildly. Time seemed to slow down as he diddy-bopped over to them, his Cuban link and heavy medallion swinging around his neck. He pulled back the lapels on his jacket and placed his hands on his waist, revealing his Gucci belt and his two .45s.

  “Yo, where Victor at?” Reece asked.

  Qwess scoffed. “He ain’t here. He sent these niggas.”

  Reece looked at each man, slowly nodding his head. “So Victor doesn’t respect us enough to show his face and address his violation? He took two kis from my little man, beat him down. My li’l homie from Skibo hit him with consignment, and he decided to keep shit. Now, we trying to resolve this shit ’cause war is bad for business—for everybody, and he wanna say, ‘fuck us’?”

  “Black Vic said that you said ‘fuck us’ when you wouldn’t show us no flex on the prices,” the minion countered.

  “Oh, yeah? That what he said?” Reece asked. He shook his head and mocked, “He said, she said, we said . . . See, that’s that bitch shit. That’s why Victor should’ve came himself. But he sent you to speak for him, right?”

  The bald-headed minion puffed out his bird chest. “That’s right.”

  “Okay.” Reece nodded his head and looked around the rooftop of the garage. “Well, tell Victor this!”

  SMACK!

  Without warning, Reece lit the minion’s jaws up w
ith an open palm slap. Samson lunged forward and wrapped his huge mittens around the neck of one of the other minions, who wore a skully pulled low over his eyes. Qwess drew his pistol and aimed it at the other minion in a hoodie, while the soldier in the passenger seat of the Tahoe popped out of the roof holding an AK-47.

  “Y’all thought it was sweet?” Reece taunted. He smacked the bald-headed minion again, and he crumpled to the floor semiconscious. “I got a message for Victor’s ass, though.”

  Reece dragged the man over to the Hummer and pitched his body to the ground in front of the pulley attached to the front of the truck. He reached inside the Hummer to release the lever for the pulley, then returned to the front of the Hummer. While the spectators watched in horror, Reece pulled bundles of metal rope from the pulley and wrapped it around the man’s neck. Qwess came over to help, and when they were done, the two of them hoisted the man up onto the railing.

  “Wait, man! Please don’t do this!” the minion pleaded. He was fully conscious now, and scrapping for his life. Qwess cracked him in the jaw and knocked the fight right out of him.

  Reece fixed him with a cold gaze. “We not doing this to you, homie. Your man, Victor, is,” he explained. “His ass should’ve showed up. Now, of course, this means war.”

  Reece and Qwess flipped the man over the railing. His body sailed through the air, and the pulley whirred to life, guiding his descent. His banshee-like wail echoed through the quiet night as he desperately tugged at the rope around his neck. Then suddenly, the pulley ran out of rope and caught, snapping his neck like a chicken. Both Qwess and Reece spared a look over the edge and saw his lifeless body dangling against the side of the building.

  Reece turned to face the others. Slowly, he slid his thumb across his naked throat, and the AK-47 sparked three times. All head shots.