One Blood

Chapter Thirty-One

Doubt crept into Amir’s mind for the first time since embarking on his mission to save Lincoln. Why hadn’t he been able to move on after his mother’s death? Why hadn’t he contacted the authorities instead of rounding up a gang of thugs to bust Lincoln out of prison by any means necessary?

The answer was obvious.

Dad.

His father had preached his entire life about how a black man in America had to live by his own laws and create his own rules because the “system” was built for the black man to fail. Amir had grown up with a romanticized vision of what his father and the Black Mob stood for. Now that the veil was lifting, he could see his father for what he really was—an angry black man who’d taken the eye for an eye mentality to insane lengths. This revelation surprised Amir as much as it hurt.

Now, here he was, ringleader of his own Black Mob, attempting to prosper on the pain and suffering of others. He had kidnapped an innocent teenage girl and turned her into a monster. If his mother were still alive, Amir would not be able to look her in the eyes. On top of that, he was probably going to end up dead or in jail for his trouble. What a way to honor her final wish.

Red Wolf’s chatter brought Amir back to his predicament.

He listened intently. Something was going on at St. Mary’s Hospital in the center of town.

* * * * *

Lake City, LA

Scenery blurred past the bullet-riddled, burgundy Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight speeding through Lake City. Brandon lay slumped in the passenger seat, his sprained left wrist cradled on his lap. He couldn’t believe he’d nearly been shot. He was lucky to be alive – far luckier than Shorty.

He stared out of the broken front windshield as shattered glass danced on the dash. Trees, traffic lights, and random billboards flashed in and out of his field of vision. He wanted to turn around and check on Karen, but the man he now thought of as Gordo, was watching him. So instead, he focused his mind on his last conversation with Shorty, replaying it over and over like a skipping CD.

* * * * *

Karen lay curled up in fetal position on the backseat. She thought of Kristopher’s message to trust Brandon. Yeah right—she’d never trust anyone ever again. Besides, Kristopher was only a hallucination brought on by the drugs. Her cramps flared up and she found herself praying for drugs. She coughed violently for the second time in less than a minute. Her blood-tinted mucus splattered the seat.

God, what is happening to me?

* * * * *

Fat Pat focused on the road as the steering wheel dug into his generous belly. All the streets appeared alike. He smacked the steering wheel repeatedly in frustration. Trump had been the driver, not him.

Fat Pat glanced over at the lanky kid in the passenger seat with dried tears on his face. Then he checked on the girl in the backseat.

How the fuck did this happen?

Fat Pat looked at what was left of his watch. It had stopped at 8:23 a.m. Unbelievable. The whole saga at the park had lasted less than ten minutes.

He examined his options. Salsa and Trump were dead, and he assumed the same was true for Amir and the boys back at headquarters. Yet he had gotten away pretty much unharmed. And, he still had the girl.

What kind of dumb luck is this?

The original plan was fucked. It was up to Fat Pat to make the best of a bad situation. The girl was his ticket out of this whole mess. Nothing could happen to him as long as he kept her close.