There was another shot, then Kennedy hit the ground. I immediately began shooting toward the doorway, backing up as I fired the gun. I saw a man lying in the doorway, taking his last breath. In his hand was the gun that had fired the last two rounds that took Kennedy out.
“Son of a bitch,” I murmured. Then I looked down at Kennedy’s blood-soaked body, and it came out as a scream. “Son of a bitch!”
Kneeling down beside him, I lifted his head into my hands. “Kennedy, man. You okay? You’re going to be all right.”
Gurgling through blood-stained lips, he gathered the strength to tell me, “Go. Go to Vegas, now.”
I shook my head. “I can’t leave you like this. I’m going to call for help.”
“No! You’re a Duncan. You’re too valuable. Just go. Go to your brother. Lincoln is on the way.”
“I’m not leaving you. No way, not going to happen. I refuse.”
Barely able to move his lips anymore, he mumbled, “Rio, I would have come out for you. Please go. Please.” He closed his eyes, and I knew it was only a matter of time before he would drown in his own blood.
Gently resting his head on the floor, I got up and ran to the car. It was unlocked, and the keys were still in it. Clearly Kennedy had known there was a chance we would have to make a quick getaway. I looked back toward the house and silently thanked him for looking out for me.
I had no idea if more of X’s men were on the way, so I jumped in the car and wasted no time getting out of there. Fumbling for my phone as I drove, I dialed Orlando’s number.
“Kennedy is dead!” I cried out. “Fucking sons of bitches killed him. O, man, we need to get that motherfuckin’ Brother X.”
Sasha
16
After we left Lojack in his hood, Paris and I switched cars and changed into black jeans and yuppie T-shirts to head over to Brooklyn Heights. Montague Street, the main drag, might as well have been on the other side of the planet, with its high-end clothing shops, quaint cafes, and overpriced juice bars. As you can imagine, locating Samuel’s six-foot-tall Puerto Rican tranny sidepiece in a gentrified neighborhood like this was not hard at all.
It turned out that Darlene worked in a chi-chi salon called Beauty, which could conveniently be watched through the window of a coffee shop across the street. Two lattes and a corn muffin later, a flaming ball of Puerto Rican attitude exited the salon, scurrying down the street. We got in our car and followed those five-inch heels until Darlene ducked into an apartment building two blocks away. Shortly afterward, we watched a six-foot-something, bald-headed brotha wearing a black bow tie get out of a sedan and enter the building. The assumption was that we had just unofficially been introduced to Brother Samuel.
“You think gay men really give the best head?” Paris asked, her eyes on the building as if she could imagine what was going on behind the closed door.
“Maybe better than you, but my dick-sucking skills are world class,” I said with a laugh, waiting for my competitive cousin to weigh in.
“Please. I was sucking dick when you were in diapers,” she boasted.
“That is so foul. You just can’t stand to not win.”
She laughed with me, which was a relief. She had been so wound up ever since Lasalle mentioned Niles Monroe that I was beginning to worry about her.
Twenty-two minutes later, girlfriend came switching her hot-to-trot ass out of the building in a new outfit and wig. Guess old boy had made a mess of the last one. Darlene headed back in the direction of the salon, and not long after that, Samuel came through the door and out to his car with a big grin on his face. When he pulled off, we stayed on him.
“You’re tailing him too close,” I snapped, worried that Paris would blow our cover and lose the one opportunity we had to find X.
“Hey, I got this, okay?” She gave me the side-eye, although she did drop back a little.