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  Blood of a Boss III

  Lock Down Publications

  Presents

  Blood of a Boss III

  A Novel by Askari

  Lock Down Publications

  P.O. Box 1482

  Pine Lake, Ga 30072-1482

  Visit our website at www.lockdownpublications.com

  Copyright 2016 Blood of a Boss III by Askari

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in review.

  First Edition January 2016

  Printed in the United States of America

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Lock Down Publications

  Like our page on Facebook: Lock Down Publications @www.facebook.com/lockdownpublications.ldp

  Cover design and layout by: Dynasty’s Cover Me

  Book interior design by: Shawn Walker

  Edited by: Mia Rucker

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to all of my fans and supporters, the book clubs and all of the reading groups that show a brotha love. When I first came in the game I was an unknown author, but y’all gave me a chance and allowed me to create a lane for myself. I truly FOX wit’ y’all and words could never express my appreciation and gratitude.

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, I would like to give a special shout out to the #1 crew in street lit - Lock Down Publications. The roster may have changed but the objective remains the same - The Game Is Ours!

  Shout out to my babies - Dayshon Kapone, Keyonti Nikkia, Quamar Preston, Steven and Ajanaye. I love y’all and I’m extremely proud to have such wonderful children. Keep striving for greatness and never give up on your dreams. The best has yet to come.

  To my beautiful fiancée, Ms. LaChaun “Lady Stiletto” Tucker. I love you so much, Moot Moot, and I appreciate all of the sacrifices that you make for our family. I know that I can work your nerves at times and have you ready to sock me in the eye (LMAO), but I truly appreciate your patience, love, and support. Thank you.

  Shout outs to the Home Team - J. Peach (I FOX witchu the long way and I love you, sis. Congradulations on your new situation and I wish you the best!), Mrs. Ebonee Oliver (Thanks for helping a brotha see when he couldn’t. Your love and support is bullet-proof, and I love you my sista.), Ms. Jane Pennela (You have been my #1 fan and supporter from day one, and I truly love and appreciate you.), Polo Da Don (What it do, homie?), Ms. Diana Williams aka “Jadakisses” (‘Sup, Ma? Thanks for the love and support.), Ms. Sharon Bell (Bye, Felicia!!! MAO), Ms. Sharon Nonchalant (Thanks for the support, sis.), and Ms. Kim TrueToMe Lablanc (Thanks for the positive energy. Every time I pick up my pen I think about your excitement, and I go hard to put together a witty story. I’ve got another banga for you!)

  Shout outs to my Road Dawgs - Micheal Grant aka Miz Money aka Abdur.

  Rahman (I love you to death, big bro. Without your assistance and wittiness, I would have never been able to pul this off.), Jarue “Masomakali” Lawson (I love you, big bro. Thanks for always having my back.), Cousin Cheese (I love you, my nigga. When nobody believed in my dreams, you did. I know that things are hard for you right now. But be patient and keep your faith in Allah.), Cousin Flaco (I love you, bul. Stay focused.), My little brother, Reginald “Breeze” Cabache (It’s your time to shine, beloved. Don’t blow it. Stay focused and keep family first.)

  Shout outs to all of the brothas on lock that held me down when the kid was suffering from writer’s block - Mir from Master Street, Jay-0, T.Y. from Uptown, Live from Cypress Hill Projects, H. Money Bags from Marcy Projects, Mally Bucks from Germantown (Dee Dee, what’s up? MAO), Slack from Chester, Nell from 20th and Susque, da homie Dillz, Woo from Chew Ave, B-rad from Southwest, T. Bolda, and the homie, Gotti.

  Last but not least, shout outs to the big homie, CASH. You’sa MONSTER with the pen, bro! Thanks for feeling a young nigga’s pain, and for giving me the opportunity to tear up this book game. I salute!

  About the Author

  My pen name is ASKARI, but I’m known throughout the city of Philadelphia as S-CLASS. Prior to writing books I was one of the hottest rappers in the city. This was in the early 2000’s before social media, but I still had a strong buzz, blazing mixtapes and rocking clubs from Jersey to New York City.

  In October 2001, my homie, Peedi Crack, was signed to Rocafella Records, and like the real nigga he is, he took our crew along for the ride. Our sole mission was to lock down the rap game and get our families out of the hood. Unfortunately, in February 2003, just as my career was beginning to take off, I was arrested and charged for a murder that I absolutely did not commit.

  Aside from the fact there was no physical evidence linking me to this crime. (No Gun. No Fingerprints. No DNA. No video surveillance. Nothing!) Immediately after the crime, the shooter was described as a DARK SKINNED BLACK MAN WITH A SUNNI MUSLIM BEARD. As you can see from m pictures, I’m light brown-skinned and at the time I had a baby’s face.

  When I was kidnapped by the system, I had just turned 20 years old, a father of three beautiful children, I was working two jobs and busting my ass in the studio, primed to be the next Jay Z. I didn’t have a criminal record and in my spare time, I was working with the youth in my community as a coach on our little league’s football team.

  At my trial, the district attorney’s case relied exclusively on one eyewitness. This witness was a convicted felon and serving time for an unrelated matter. (He admitted the district attorney gave him a deal to testify against me.) He testified that at the time of this incident, he was a fugitive of justice, standing on the corner selling crack cocaine. He admitted that he was under the influence of alcohol and drugs and he only had a partial view of the shooter’s face because the shooter was wearing a hoody and because the scene was not well lit. He also testified that another individual TOLD him that I was the shooter. SMH!!! Typical jealousy and hate!!!

  In the end, after a TWO DAY TRIAL, I was convicted of first degree murder and given a life sentence. SMFH!!!!

  I was crushed to say the least. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t understand How the fuck could I be convicted of some shit that I never even did? Excuse my language, but I’m angry as hell!!!

  In the midst of the bullshit, I knew that I had to remain focused. I knew that I had to maintain and work hard to prove my innocence, while at the same time conduct myself as a man, standing firm on the principles that my mother and father taught me as a child. I have not waivered and I never will. I shall and must continue to fight for my freedom, that just my nature.

  You know, it’s funny to me, thinking about this book game. I thought that I’d be triple platinum by now, captivating audiences with my creativity and word play. I guess I still am, but instead of a microphone, I’m using a pen. Still focused on using my creativity to open the doors that confine me. Whether they be the doors that kept a young nigga locked in the hood, or the doors that kept a young nigga locked behind bars. Either way, I will be free!

  To my family and friends, fans and supporters, I love y’all from the bottom of my heart. Words could never express my gratitude.

  And to the big homie, Ca$h, than you, bro. When I was down and out, sitting in my cell, looking for a way out, I came across TRUST NO MAN. Your dedications and acknowledgments gave me a new outlook, a new source of motivation. It was then that I picked up a pen and I’m determined to never put it down.
/>   Preface

  December 12th, 2014

  When Grip and Sonny left the emergency room and stepped into the chilly December weather, they were immediately bombarded by flashing lights and news cameras. News reporters from every local station were crowding the walkway, and they all wanted a piece of The Moreno Crime Family.

  “Mr. Moreno. Mr. Moreno,” Roland Rushin, the news reporter from Channel 10, called out as he positioned himself in front of the crowd. He held his microphone up to Grip’s face. “Do you have anything to say about the recent attacks on your family?”

  The Black Mafia don scowled at him and continued walking towards the parking lot where his driver, Muhammad, was standing beside his Mercedes-Maybach with the back door wide open. Directly behind the large sedan, a black Escalade was parked with the engine running.

  “Mr. Moreno,” Jessica Summers, the young white woman from the Channel 9 News, called out. “Is this your other grandson, Sontino Moreno? Is he the new boss of The Moreno Crime Family?”

  Sonny stopped walking and looked at her with a sinister glare. “Yo, where the fuck is y’all gettin’ this shit?”

  The young woman stood firm. She held her microphone in front of his face and asked him, “Aren’t you Sontino Moreno?”

  “Yeah, I’m Sonny Moreno,” he quickly confirmed. “But I’ve never even heard of this so-called Moreno Crime Family. Y’all mutha’fuckas is trippin’.”

  He pushed the microphone away from his face and climbed inside of the Maybach. The multitude of flashing lights illuminated the car’s plush interior, causing him to close the satin curtain on his window. Looking out the corner of his left eye, he saw Grip reclined back in the white lamb-skin seat. He was fiddling with the diamond ring on his right pinky and flexing his jaw muscles.

  As Muhammad pulled out of the parking lot with the Escalade close behind, he looked into the rearview mirror and noticed that Sonny was cutting his eye at Grip. Muhammad didn’t say a word. Instead, he reached inside of his suit jacket and casually removed the .45 semi-automatic that was nestled in his shoulder holster.

  Sonny could feel Muhammad’s energy. He looked into the front seat and locked eyes with the old man through the rearview mirror. Disgusted, he shamefully shook his head, and then reclined back in his seat. Damn, yo, if only Mook could see me now.

  Prologue

  “Somebody, help me,” United States Attorney Andrew Clavenski shouted as he kicked away one of the rats that were nibbling on his ankle. He was locked in the basement of The Aramingo Diner. The pitch-black room was chilly and damp, and the distinct aroma of moss and mildew filled his nostrils. He pressed his right hand against the gunshot wound to his abdomen and cringed from the pain. The swelling was so intense that it appeared as if a tennis ball was trapped beneath his skin. A dime-sized bullet hole rested at the top of the swollen mound, and like hot lava spewing from the mouth of a volcano, his crimson-red blood was sticky and thick.

  “Please,” he continued shouting. “If anyone can hear me, call the police.” He knew that the chances of someone hearing his cries were slim to none, but just like a drowning man grasping at straws, he was assed out and desperate.

  Suddenly, the lights flicked on and Clavenski screamed like a bitch. Under the cloak of darkness, he was completely unaware that he was trapped in the midst of such horror. A couple of feet to his right, the owner of the diner was stretched out in a pool of his own blood. His naked corpse was covered with rats, and the large rodents were feasting on his dead flesh. A gaping bullet hole was embedded between his bushy, caterpillar-like eyebrows, and his mouth was frozen open as if The Angel of Death snatched away his soul in the middle of a scream.

  Irritated, the rats stopped eating. They looked at Clavenski and stared. Their beady little black eyes shined like Arabian oil, and their blood-covered whiskers twitched in the air. One by one, they hopped off of the owner’s dead body and scampered towards the wounded prosecutor.

  “Oh my God,” Clavenski screamed at the top of his lungs. “Not like this. Please.”

  Chapter One

  It was 6:43 p.m. when Muhammad pulled into the parking lot of The Aramingo Diner. He parked the black, 2015 Cadillac Escalade beside Gangsta’s Excursion, and then looked into the back seat where Sonny and Grip were seated in silence. He glanced at Sonny, who had been texting on his iPhone for the past half an hour, then settled his eyes on Grip.

  “Mr. Moreno,” he addressed his boss. “Shall I wait for you here, or would you rather that I come inside?”

  “I think it would be best if you waited out here,” Grip replied as he buttoned up his trench coat and ran his fingertips along the brim of his Bossalini. “This shouldn’t take too long.” He looked to his right where Sonny was stuffing his cell phone back in his Ferragamo slacks. “Sontino, you ready?”

  “Yeah, I’m ready,” the younger Moreno stated with an icy undertone. He opened the back door and hopped out of the Escalade. His heart was full of rage and his mind was set on revenge. His younger brother was laid out in a coma, their beloved father was dead, and their entire family was nearly eradicated. Certainly, those responsible had to be called into account.

  Grip could feel his grandson’s aura, and a devious smile spread across his light complexioned face. This was the exact way he needed Sonny to be, heartless and cold. He cracked the back door and returned his attention to Muhammad. “Call Gangsta and tell him we’re here.”

  As Muhammad grabbed his cell phone from the leather console that separated the two front seats, Grip climbed out of the SUV and inhaled the crispy, cold air. He looked across the street where a replica of his Cadillac Escalade was parked at the corner with the lights off and the engine running.

  The large vehicle was jet-black with dark tinted windows and black 26-inch rims. His bodyguards, Ahmed and Mustafa, were sitting behind the tinted windows strapped with AR-15s and watching his every move. Grip nodded his head, giving them the green light to murder anything out of the ordinary, and then stood beside Sonny at the diner’s entrance.

  A couple of seconds later, Gangsta appeared on the other side of the glass door, and Sonny took a step backwards. He was completely caught off guard. How in the hell was his Pittsburgh connect tied into Grip? He screwed up his face and ice-grilled his grandfather. “Yo, what the fuck is Kev doin’ here?”

  The door swung open and Gangsta emerged from the diner with a brown folder tucked under his arm. “First of all,” he spoke to Sonny in a calm voice, “my name’s not Kev. It’s Gangsta, and I’m your cousin.”

  Sonny was fuming mad. His breathing was heavy and his nostrils flared. “You’s a slimy mutha’fucka,” he hissed at Grip. “Every time I turn around, ya crafty ass got a trick up ya sleeve.”

  Ignoring Sonny’s outburst, Grip remained calm. “Everything that I do is for the sake of this family,” he viscerally stated. “And the moment I realized who you were, I knew it would only be a matter of time before my enemies turned their aggressions towards you. So naturally, I took the necessary measures to ward off any possible advances.”

  This pussy must think I’m stupid, Sonny thought to himself, referring to what he perceived to be Grip’s condescending way of justifying his reasons for killing Mook. He desperately wanted to address the elephant in the room, but he realized that now was not the time. Not only was he out-manned, two to one, he was also out-gunned.

  “But I’m sayin’, though,” Sonny shrugged his shoulders, “What does any of that have to wit’ Kev, or Gangsta, or whatever the fuck this nigga’s name is? What the fuck that gotta do wit’ him?”

  Grip nodded at Gangsta, and Gangsta handed Sonny the brown folder. He opened the folder and the first thing he noticed was a 10x12-inch picture of himself. He was draped in diamonds, wrapped in a waist-length mink, and leaned against the chrome grill of his Rolls-Royce.

  “What the fuck is this?” Sonny asked while staring at the picture.

  “It’s the wrath of my enemies,” Grip explained. “Essentially, it�
�s the totality of the evidence that the federal government was building against you. And as you can see, it entails everything from drug distribution to murder. It was scheduled to go before the grand jury on Monday, but as a result of my due diligence, we caught it just in time.”

  While thumbing through the documents, Sonny came across the Title III wiretap transcripts. “Damn,” he said with a raised eyebrow, “this conversation took place at my sports bar. This is Suelyn’s work. That stankin’ ass bitch was try’na line a nigga up the whole time.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t just her,” Gangsta smiled at him knowingly. “Kev,” he used his index fingers to indicate quotation marks, “was on that ass, too.” He removed his platinum necklace with the lion head pendant and handed it to Sonny. “The red rubies on the lion’s face are actually hidden cameras,” he revealed. “There’s a microchip built inside and it downloads video footage, similar to a USB.”

  Feeling betrayed, Sonny looked back and forth between Grip and Gangsta. “Aye, yo, hold the fuck up. Nigga, you’s a fed?”

  Gangsta chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, I’m an agent with the Drug Enforcement Agency. My government name is Terrance Long, but my birth name was Terrance Moreno.”

  Sonny didn’t speak, he just looked at Gangsta skeptically.

  “Yeah, I know, right,” Gangsta said as he nodded his head, “that’s some wild shit. But dig, though, the Italians killed my parents when I was a baby. So, to protect me from his enemies, Uncle G had my name legally changed to Terrance Long. He shipped me off to boarding school and then to military school. After that, I spent four years in the Marines and another five years working as a police officer with the Pittsburgh Police Department. A few years ago, with the help of our political allies, Uncle G got me a gig with the agency. My sole mission is to undermine or ward off any federal probes directed at the family. Ironically, the same day that Uncle G found out about you, your file came across my desk.”