Читать книгу The Game Never Ends - Zaire Crown - Страница 15

Chapter Eight

We gotta get the fuck up outta here right now.

Tuesday knew Marcus had a sense of humor but nothing in his eyes hinted that he might be joking. Instead of giving some type of explanation, he just mouthed the words: “Get ready.”

He was still smiling when he called the friendly waiter back over. “I have a question about the costoletta di vitello.”

Before the server could respond, Marcus stood and leveled a. 45 at the side of his head. The blast sent blood and brain matter exploding from his skull.

Marcus then turned and starting shooting in the direction of the second waiter at the rear of the dining area, who had already pulled his own pistol. There was no chance to return fire. He dove headlong into an empty booth as the .45 punched holes through the cushion right over his head.

When he told Tuesday to “get ready,” she wasn’t expecting this but didn’t hesitate to react. She was already on her feet with the Heckler freed from her Hermes clutch.

Marcus guided her towards the front door. He kept an eye and his pistol turned to the kitchen as if waiting for someone else to come out the rear.

Then he suddenly stopped and Tuesday didn’t know why until she saw the valet. The same dude who had parked their Rolls Royce had crept up on them and had an AR-15 aimed at Marcus’s head.

“Please sir. I need you and your wife to drop the guns.” He was just as cordial as when he had taken the keys to the Wraith.

Marcus let the .45 slip from his fingers and Tuesday followed by throwing down the Heckler. The second waiter Marcus shot at promptly came to collect both weapons.

They marched the couple back to their table and made them sit.

Tuesday was fucked up. She looked around the restaurant wondering why all the customers were just sitting there calmly. It started to make sense when many of them began to pull out assault rifles that were concealed under the white linen tablecloths. They sprang to their feet, barking orders to the rest of the diners. They forced them all to the floor and made them place their hands behind their heads.

Tuesday only then realized what Marcus had already peeped: they had walked right into a trap. None of the other diners had complained about the food because nobody was waiting to eat. Half had been waiting for them; the other half were just hostages to make the scene look realistic.

The valet called out “Lock it up!” and some of the gunmen started to shut down the restaurant before any more real customers could intrude. They scrambled around to lock doors, pull the blinds, and dim the interior lights. A second valet came in carrying an M-11 and locked the front entrance then flipped the sign to CLOSED.

They ordered Tuesday and Marcus to keep their hands on the table.

“So what the fuck up wit’ this man?” he asked. “Y’all act like a nigga wasn’t gone leave a tip or something.”

“Mr. Caine, I think you know this is about a little more than a gratuity.”

Hearing them call Marcus by his real name scared the hell out of Tuesday. The way they set up this ambush marked them as professionals, but anyone who would knowingly ambush Sebastian Caine was either well-connected or suicidal. Dangerous either way.

The valet slung the AR over his shoulder and sat at the table with them. “Mr. Caine, seriously, I’m a longtime fan. I’m trying hard not to be on some groupie shit and ask for your autograph.

“I hate to finally meet you like this, but our employer wants to have a conversation and thought this was the best way to make sure it happened in a neutral environment where you both felt safe.”

If Marcus was afraid he didn’t show it. “Nigga, miss me wit’ all that fake ass James Bond shit. My employer. Bitch, I know who you work for and knew it the minute I peeped this whole play. Where the fuck is Guapa?”

Guapa? Tuesday had never heard him mention that name before.

Even though her heart was in her throat, she wanted to show that she wasn’t scared either. “All this for a conversation? Next time tell yo’ boss just hit us up on Twitter.”

The henchman got a text then checked his phone. “La Guapa just pulled in so you can tell her yourself, smart ass. I’d love to see that.”

Her? Tuesday wasn’t sure she heard him correctly.

Marcus looked at her. “Bae, I need you to listen and do exactly what I say. When she comes in here—no matter what she says, no matter what she does—you stay quiet. Don’t say shit.”

Tuesday felt like Marcus was trying to check her. “I don’t care who dis bitch s’posed to be. As long as she respect me—”

He cut her off. “Tuesday, I know you not some scared chick but trust me, it’s not the time to play tough. Not now, not here, and definitely not with this bitch. Don’t smile at her, don’t frown at her, don’t even roll yo’ eyes. Please just do what I said.”

The fake valet smiled at her. “If I were you, I’d listen to your man.”

It wasn’t what Marcus said that convinced Tuesday. It was the look on his face. For the first time since she had known him, she saw genuine fear in his eyes.

The lead henchman stood. “La Guapa is at that door, let’s go. Clear it out!”

The gunmen along with the fake busboys rounded up the real diners who were still face down on the floor. The hostages were ushered into the kitchen single file. Some with sniffles and sobs, some with delusions of being released. Seconds later, a few short staccato bursts of automatic gunfire quelled all their hopes and fears.

Tuesday imagined the innocent diners were lying dead next to the kitchen staff, the real waiters and busboys, every employee at Dominic’s who had the misfortune of having a shift on this night.

The fake waiter went to the front door to unlock it again. He nodded to the valet one who spoke into his phone: “It’s all clean, bring her in.”

A minute later, four more goons entered the building escorting two women. One preceded the other.

The first was a tall, slender Latina in perhaps her mid-forties. She was incredibly fine despite not trying to play up her femininity. She was in a Ralph Lauren suit tailored to fit with jet-black hair pulled back into a bun. She presented herself as all business and Tuesday thought she looked like one of their lawyers at Abel.

The woman that followed had the same height, build, and face. She was a twin but with a totally different look and swagger. The second was dressed like she had just left a gala. She was in a white mink wrap over a form-fitting tan suede dress that Tuesday thought was fly as hell. The gold shoes matched her belt and bag. Her hair spilled over her shoulders in shimmering cascades of black silk and Tuesday could tell it was all real.

Tuesday was floored because she was looking at one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen, and if it wasn’t for the moment probably would’ve yelled “Dayyummm!” Her dark-brown eyes were fierce and her mouth would tempt Jesus. She had the type of face that would get her the lead role on a Spanish soap opera even if she never acted a day in her life.

The Mexican beauty had her practically seeing stars but Marcus only looked at her with cool detachment.

The two valets fetched extra chairs. The ladies joined Tuesday and Marcus at their table like they were merely dinner guests arriving late due to traffic.

La Guapa looked to Marcus. “It’s been a long time. About fifteen years right?”

Whatever reaction she was hoping for, Marcus didn’t oblige. He had the face of a statue. “You went through a lot to set this up. I can tell by the look on your face, you’re really proud of yourself right now.”

“No, not proud. Actually, a little disappointed that you made this so easy. At what point did you realize?”

Marcus shook his head. “I see you still think everything’s a damn game.”

“But I like games, especially those that challenge the intellect.” She flashed a luminous smile with flawless white teeth. “Humor me, please.”

“Your boy here gave it away.” He motioned to the dead waiter at their feet leaking blood and cranial fluids. “It’s Cali, so it’s not uncommon to find all Mexican waiters at an Italian restaurant. But two Mexican waiters trying like hell to hide their south Texas accents, who just happen to have bulges under their vests.” He pointed to the second waiter who he shot at. “And that one there still got a little blood on his sleeve.”

The gunman looked down at his shirt and spotted two tiny drops on his cuff that were barely noticeable.

Marcus said, “Probably splashback from the real waiter he killed to get the uniform. I was slippin’ but my wife caught the biggest give away. Your boys shouldn’t have killed the chefs before they started cooking. Having some food to put out would’ve helped to sell it.”

“You know what a stickler I am for details.” La Guapa threw a nod to one of her personal escorts who immediately turned and shot the second waiter.

She turned back to Marcus. “Those amazing deductive powers aren’t as sharp as they used to be. The man I used to know would’ve sniffed out this trap before stepping out of his car.”

She gave Tuesday a smug grin that said, Yes bitch, your man used to suck my pussy.

“She’s pretty.” La Guapa stroked her sable wrap. “She sort of has a Shenahnay-from-around-the-way quality that some men find appealing. I just expected someone with your pedigree to have made a more refined choice.”

Marcus snapped, “You don’t know my pedigree and you don’t know hers. Now watch how you talk about my wife.”

Tuesday appreciated him checking her but didn’t appreciate that she couldn’t do it herself. She obeyed his warning. It was just hard letting this bitch talk about her like she wasn’t there.

While Tuesday kept her tongue in check, she didn’t shy away with her gray eyes. She sent a clear message to La Guapa that even though she had the ups, Tuesday wasn’t intimidated.

The two ladies became locked in a staring match and seemed to be gauging each other.

Tuesday was searching for any flaw, any pimple, blemish or imperfection that she could criticize her for. The problem was that La Guapa had none. Her attitude was shitty but even Tuesday had to admit there was an ethereal beauty about the woman, the kind that inspired artists and poets. Tuesday was a hood dime and used to being the baddest chick in the room, but sitting across from La Guapa made her feel a little insecure.

La Guapa smiled as if able to read that insecurity. It was the look a woman gave to another woman whom she didn’t consider competition. Tuesday knew it because she had given it to quite a few bitches in her day.

Marcus broke up the contest. “What the fuck you want, Reina? We both know this isn’t a hit.”

She sneered. “Don’t get cute. You won’t be able to hide behind my father for much longer.”

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking your father is the only powerful friend I have.”

“You haven’t worn the jewelry in a long time. From what I hear, nobody at the table recognizes you.”

His face was grim. “You already know that I ain’t never needed protection. So what are we doin’ here?”

She leaned back in her seat. “I’m just here to personally extend your invitation to our little gathering. Things are about to change and you play a critical role in this transition.”

Tuesday finally disobeyed her husband. “But why? Why he gotta be involved when he ain’t had nothing to do wit’ y’all for so long?”

She ignored the shut the fuck up look Marcus was giving her.

La Guapa laughed. “Oh, so she speaks. And so eloquently I might add. You didn’t tell me she was a poet laureate.”

Tuesday started to respond but Marcus spoke over her.

“I already made plans to be there. I also wanted to pay my respects to Rene.”

“He would like that,” said the conservative twin in the business suit who had not spoken.

Marcus quipped, “Roselyn, you still talk too much.”

This earned a thin smile from her. “Hello Sebastian, it’s good to see you too. I just hate that it had to be under these circumstances.”

He shrugged. “I guess we got your sister to thank for that. I thought you would’ve gotten away from this crazy bitch by now.”

It was her turn to shrug. “What can I say, somos hermanas.”

“I’ve tried to never hold that against you.” And they both laughed.

As they spoke, Tuesday could see La Guapa was annoyed by their banter. She rolled her eyes and made little disgruntled noises. It was obvious she didn’t like not being the center of attention.

She broke in: “You are incredible, Sebastian. Rico considered you his best friend, and even after you killed him, my father still embraced you like a son. You’ve had me in your bed, and after all these years, Rose still looks at you like she’s ready to cum in her panties.”

Tuesday watched the quiet sister look away, shamed. She and Marcus were going to have a talk when they got home.

La Guapa said: “Tell me your secret. Tell me our weakness. What is it about my family that makes us eat right out of the palm of your hand?”

Marcus stared at her for a moment. His expression was sincere and sympathetic. “Your family was my family, Reina. Rene was a father to me, and Rico was a brother. The saddest thing of all is that you done spent twenty years hating me for something I didn’t do. I carry my own guilt about Rico, but not because I killed him. Because I should’ve been with him.”

She shook her head. “There was a time when those brown eyes could’ve convinced me of anything. But you forget that I know you better than anybody, Sebastian. I know you because I know myself and we’ve always been the same. Always calculating, always counting the moves. You killed your friend and took his place because it’s what I would’ve done. Sacrificed a knight to promote a pawn.

“And with Rico out of the way, my father opened up the floodgates for you. For twenty years I had to sit back and watch you grow, prosper, earning the name and money that was supposed to be my big brother’s.”

She smacked her hand against the table. “And now the king of cocaine is retired and living in Beverly Hills with two kids and a goddamn stripper.”

She glared at Tuesday. “Yeah, I know all about you, Tuesday or Tabitha, whatever you want to call yourself. Tell me, just between us girls, how does a common hoodrat like you go from fucking in cheap motels and robbing street dealers to being married to a man like this? You must feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman—the prostitute who catches the billionaire. Dreams really do come true, right?”

Tuesday wanted to spaz, but if she went off the way she wanted, she would only end up on the floor next to the dead waiters. She simply said, “Bitch, you don’t know me.”

“But I know your man, and I know him very well,” La Guapa teased. “Let me guess, he told you not to say anything. Ask yourself something. Was it because he was afraid I might hurt you or was he more afraid you might embarrass him?”

Tuesday returned the smile La Guapa was giving her. Inside she was fuming but she refused to let her have the satisfaction of seeing it.

Marcus asked: “How long do you think we can sit here and reminisce? I’m sure the people who work here have family who are starting to call and get worried. Nobody’s answering the business line or their personal phones. How much longer will it be before people start knocking on that door?”

Roselyn gave her sister a cautionary look of agreement.

For a moment, La Guapa just glared at him with a look that could cut metal, then conceded. “My father’s prognosis is much worse than we’ve let on to anybody outside the family. He doesn’t have months, just days to live. So the meeting has been pushed up to Saturday.”

Tuesday frowned. “The day after tomorrow?”

La Guapa said to Marcus: “You’ll be leaving with us tonight. My father wants to see you first and sent me to collect you personally. We have a jet waiting nearby.”

Tuesday said, “Bitch, he ain’t goin’ nowhere wit’ y’all. And we got our own jet. We’ll meet you there.”

Marcus said: “I know Rene didn’t sign off on this bullshit. This little stunt was all you, Reina.”

She gave a guilty grin. “He only said to come and get you. He didn’t specify the means.”

“We need to leave now,” Roselyn reiterated. “We have somebody to make sure your wife gets home safely.”

“Fuck that!” Tuesday spat. “Where he go, I go.”

“Sebastian, muzzle your pet before I put her down.” La Guapa flashed him a warning glare. “Father’s protection doesn’t extend to your wife.” She added with a sinister tone: “Or your kids.”

One of her men came and stood behind Tuesday’s seat.

Marcus shot him a look. “Bitch you betta back the fuck up unless you ’bout to massage her shoulders.”

He cut back to La Guapa. “I’ll go with y’all, but let that be the last time you threaten my family. Act like you remember who the fuck I am. I kill shit about mine.”

To Roselyn he said, “And I’ll be the one making sure she gets home safe. Me and my wife came here together, we leaving together. And any muthafucka who got a problem with that can start shooting shit right now.”

Marcus scanned them all. His eyes defiant.