Memphis Streets 3: Revenge

Chapter 1- Lucifer

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

The light. Where is the light in Mason's eyes? The world tilts off its axis as my brain forces my heart to accept the unbelievable. He's dead. The leader of the Memphis Cartel Lords . . . my lover, my best friend . . . my life-dead. Flipped upside down in a black Escalade on the side of the highway, I'm twisted in an awkward position. It feels like every damn bone in my body is broken.

Still I scream until my voice fails and my lungs beg for oxygen. My world. My rock. Since we were kids, I've been Mason's ride-or-die chick-not because of the shared alliance with the Cartel Lord family, but because I loved the air he breathed and the ground he walked on.

Until recently, he didn't know about the torch I carried for him. To him, I was his right-hand bitch, blasting and carving niggas up who dared to cross the Cartel Lord family. I never realized that my brother Bishop had cock-blocked my ass and made it clear with his best friend that I was off-limits. All that shit changed when that crooked-ass cop Sasaha Smith got murked and all her secrets fell out of the closet. The bitch had some kind of hold on him-and apparently Mason's life-long sworn enemy, Snake, too.

She had even convinced Mason that she was carrying his child. I knew the bitch was no good and was more than thrilled when Mason realized where his heart truly belonged-with me. His world. His rock.

A couple of hours ago we made love for the first time. Hell, there's still a sweet soreness throbbing between my legs that if I close my eyes I can still feel him. Rare tears fuck up my vision and splash over my lashes as I try to accept the unacceptable. He's gone. This shit wasn't supposed to go down like this. We had planned everything. Everything. Hit the Fat Monkey, blow that shit up. Hit Goodson Construction, mow down every Vice Disciple in sight.

Snake's ass was nowhere to be found. Bishop fucked up. He was the one who'd been in charge of tagging that nigga. Instead of hitting the chief, we got his second-in-command, McGriff. Turned out his ass was cutting his own deal with their supplier behind Snake's back, tryna come up. We did that muthafucka a favor takin' them out. That shit didn't sit well with Mason. Hyped on a murderous high, we made up a new plan on the fly and drove our murder train toward the heart of the Vice Disciples: Shotgun Row.

The shit was bold. Any other time, we would've known it was a suicide mission. We were picked off a few miles out. Bullets flew like we were in the Middle East. By chance we spotted Snake. We chased that ass going the wrong way on the highway. We were gaining ground until a near head-on collision with an eighteen-wheeler spun and then flipped us off the road.

"Muthafucka, answer me! What the fuck is your real name?" Snake roars at Mason.

They are inches outside the flipped vehicle where the nigga was just wailing his meaty fist against Mason's jaw. Both gangsta chiefs are physically intimidating men. Their major differences are that Snake is covered in tats and has a surgically altered tongue so that it resembled one of a snake. Mason, a little bulkier, a little darker, shiny on top with a goatee and one fucked up eye that he lost in a gun battle years ago. Despite these differences, I'm suddenly hit with the realization that at this angle these two look alike.

"ANSWER ME," Snake roars.

"G-get away from him," I spit, ignoring the taste of my own blood.

However, the pain ricocheting throughout my body intensifies to the point that I know I'm on the verge of blacking out. I don't care. I need to protect my man at all cost. Then this nigga does something that surprises the shit out of me. The muthafucka starts crying. I ain't talking about a few bullshit sniffles either. It's a gut-wrenching roar of a wounded lion.