Trust No Bitch

  Trust No Bitch

  BY

  CA$H & NENE CAPRI

  Lock Down Publications

  P.O. Box 1482

  Pine Lake, Ga 30072-1482

  Copyright 2013 by CA$H & NeNe Capri

  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 July 2013

  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

  Ca$h

  Email: ldp.cash@gmail.com

  Facebook: Cassius Alexander

  Like our page on Facebook: Lock Down Publications @

  www.facebook.com/lockdownpublications.ldp

  Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Ca$h

  NeNeCapri

  Facebook: NeNeCapri

  Twitter: @NeNeCapri

  Instagram: @NeneCapri

  Cover design and layout by: Marion Designs

  Book interior design by: Shawn Walker

  Edited by: Shawn Walker

  Acknowledgements

  We would first like to acknowledge our fans nationwide. Thank you for supporting our individual careers and this collaboration Trust No Bitch. To our loyal supporters on the social websites, in the book groups, and the distributors, you fuel our drive. To the readers, you make us what we are authors. Thank you

  Shawn Walker for your boss editing. Keith, we thank you for the cover and look forward to more of your work. Friends, family, associates, and fellow authors we thank you all.

  Dedications

  CA$H: To the one who prefers to remain anonymous, they can’t destroy what they can’t see.

  Nene Capri: To My beloved daughter Princess Khairah everything I do is for you. Mommy loves you.

  Chapter 1

  Mentor and Protégé

  Kiam was putting the last of his things in the two boxes he had placed in the middle of his bunk. As he lined his things neatly from one side to the other his mind shifted to the work that lay ahead. His blood rushed through his veins as he felt the reality of impending freedom. The thoughts were sweet in his mind but bitter in his belly. He had spent the last eight years living how many would consider beastly.

  At age twenty-six the trail of blood he had left behind was long and thick. And honestly it was only going to get thicker. As he turned to check to see if he had everything, one of his boys entered his cell appearing to be all about business.

  “Ay, Kiam, one of your homeboys just came on the compound. Some cat who calls himself Supreme. He says he’s from the eastside of Cleveland. Isn’t that your hood?” asked Philly Cat, a straight up G from South Philadelphia who was serving thirty years behind a snitch nigga’s testimony.

  Philly Cat was one of the dudes responsible for checking new arrivals’ credentials when they first came on compound to make sure that they were solid. The rule stood firm, snitches weren’t allowed to live amongst real niggas at Lewisburg.

  “Yeah, that’s my hood,” Kiam attested. “But the name Supreme don’t ring no bells. Did you check out his papers?”

  “Nah, he says he sent them home.” Philly stood, rubbing his hands together.

  “Well, you know the rules, if the homie can’t prove who he is, he has to get off the compound. It don’t matter where he’s from. He’s not my muthafuckin’ homie.” Kiam wasn’t claiming nobody that couldn’t prove their officialness.

  He stood contemplating for a minute then rendered his verdict.

  “Take me to that nigga.”

  Philly Cat led Kiam outside on the yard where other solid men were questioning Supreme. Kiam walked up and studied the newcomer. He didn’t recognize the nigga’s face so he kept quiet and listened to his responses.

  It was obvious that if Supreme wasn’t from that city once dubbed The Mistake by the Lake, he had at least lived there for a while. He knew the names of all the shot-callers, and he knew all the hoods. He claimed to have once had the notorious Garden Valley projects on Kinsman Avenue on smash before they were torn down and rebuilt, but something didn’t seem right about ol’ boy.

  “Fam, what’s your government?” Kiam cut in.

  “Michael Gresham,” Supreme replied, mean-mugging, with his thick arms folded across his chest.

  Kiam ignored the weak intimidation tactic. Instead he entertained him with a small chuckle which was his signature stamp of death. Instantly Supreme knew he had stepped through the gates of hell and Kiam appeared to be the devil himself.

  Supreme was a big muthafucka, but size doesn’t determine a man’s gangsta. His biggest mistake was he hadn’t looked Kiam in the eye. That in itself hinted at a flaw in his get-down. Boss niggas could match a man’s gaze with one better.

  “Homie, I’m gonna make a few calls and check out your street cred. If you’re not who you claim to be, you better check off compound now,” he warned Supreme.

  Kiam didn’t stay a second past his words; he turned his back on Supreme and walked away. That nigga frontin’. I can see fear in his eyes. If it turns out he’s a rat, hiding under a different name, I’m gonna send him up out of here in a body bag. It didn’t matter that his release date was upon him, his gangsta was never on hold.

  Kiam used his celly Pop’s contraband cell phone to reach out to the streets. It only took a few calls to find out that Michael Gresham was indeed a thorough dude. But the nigga that also called himself Supreme was not that Michael Gresham.

  By evening Kiam had learned that the Michael Gresham that had Kinsman on smash got thirty-five years and was at ADX Florence, the super max federal prison in Colorado. The description nor the reputation fitted this clown down here. What the fuck is this nigga hiding? wondered Kiam.

  The question rang strong in his mind, but he damn sure didn’t have time to figure it out. Kiam hated fake niggas with a passion. He believed that they all should be killed. Weak, fake niggas had cost a lot of good men their lives, taking the stand to testify and selling their souls. In that moment the decision was made. Supreme’s fate was death. In fact, Kiam felt that he deserved the most gruesome death just for calling himself some real shit like Supreme when he was not anything close to it.

  Late that night he pulled a homemade ski mask over his face to hide his identity in case the wrong nigga saw him moving. He eased out of the broom closet, where he had strapped up, and crept up behind Supreme in the television area. “Welcome to the grave muthafucka,” he gritted, shoving a knife between the imposter’s shoulder blades.

  Warm blood poured down Kiam’s arm as he stabbed Supreme repeatedly. The surge of testosterone that filled his body as he took another man’s life was priceless. And even with the victory of maxing out on his bid holding in the balance, nothing felt better than the kill. Kiam had well-established that he would stand on principle regardless of the consequences.

  The next morning…

  Kiam stood in front of his celly and mentor with a heavy heart that contradicted the beast that lied within. In the three years that they had bunked together, Alonzo, whom he affectionately called Pop, had become his surrogate father and his only trusted friend. As anxious as Kiam was to return to the streets and apply all the things that Alonzo had instilled in him, he still felt some kinda way about leaving Big Zo behind.

  “Pop, you know I would give anything for you to be able to walk out that door with me.” Sincerity covered his face as he looked his guru in
the eye.

  Big Zo showed no expression. He appreciated the love but the reality was that he wasn’t walking out of that door with his protégé. As things stood he wasn’t ever walking out of those prison doors, he had life in the feds and that was that.

  “Don’t worry about Pop, I’m built to last. My life is in here now. That’s the bed I made, and that’s the bed I’m going to sleep in.”

  Kiam nodded his understanding. He admired the strength that Pop had in spite of his predicament. Big Zo hadn’t let the sentence break him. At fifty years old, he worked out every day to stay in top shape, and he was impeccably groomed. His mind was a vault of knowledge and wisdom that extended far beyond street life. But Pop was about that life too.

  He put a fatherly hand on Kiam’s shoulder and spat a jewel in his ear. “I see how you’re looking at me. You’re feeling bad because you’re leaving me behind. But there’s no time for that. You have to forget about what’s on this side of the fence, including that business of last night, I’ll handle that. I need for you to focus on what’s on that other side. Do you understand me, son?”

  Kiam just nodded because he did not trust himself to speak. It wrung his heart to be leaving him behind.

  “Go out there and put your hustle and murder games down like I’ve prepared you to do,” Pop continued. “I have schooled you to become the strongest street general to ever fuck with the game, and

  I expect nothing less of you.”

  “Failure is not an option,” Kiam intoned.

  “It is not.” Big Zo put the other hand on Kiam’s shoulder. Standing at about 6’ 2 they were the same height. He looked at his understudy and implored, “Remember, you are to leave no enemy alive or they’ll rebuild then come back to overthrow you. Never forget that the only people that can hurt you are those closest to you. No matter who it is—family, friend or foe— if they show one glint of treason you must execute them with extreme prejudice.

  You bury the muthafucka, let Allah worry about forgiveness.”

  “I understand, Pop. And you already know how I live.”

  Indeed Big Zo did. He quickly reflected on the countless sacrifices Kiam made on his behalf. In the past three years there had been several incidents that tested Kiam’s loyalty and his gangsta; he had aced each test.

  Big Zo’s mind returned to the present. He tightened his grip on Kiam’s shoulder and continued to drop jewels on him. “Son, you’re a throwback. There’s not many dudes your age that honor the code. Self-preservation is the only code that still stands today. Fuck anything else you heard.”

  Pop’s brow furrowed, he wished that he had known that when the feds began snatching up his comrades and pressuring them to flip on him.

  “Real men like you and me always suffer the greatest penalties because we won’t compromise our principles to save ourselves.” Kiam’s voice almost broke. He knew Big Zo’s story well; he had read the trial transcripts more than twenty times.

  “I let certain men live because I thought that they were built like me. Death before dishonor is what we were all taught. But at the end of the day, muthafuckas saved themselves and left me for dead. Don’t let them do that to you. Do you understand?” Pop questioned needlessly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now you must remember, you can trust yourself and you can trust my daughter. Lissha has been taught by the best. She is just as comfortable carrying a Glock as she is carrying a Gucci bag. She is to be your conduit to the top, but she is not to be your woman. You can have everything that I left out there but my daughter. She is beautiful and any man will be tempted to want more from her than a business relationship, but you are not to fuck her. Is that clear?” He studied Kiam with intensity that was as hot as burning coals. Kiam did not blink. His loyalty was concrete.

  “Temptation befalls many. If you succumb to it, I will not be forgiving. I will use everything that I have to reach out and touch you – by any means possible,” Pop warned.

  “On everything that I love, I won’t betray you. And if any amount of money can bring you home, I’ll be back to get you,” Kiam promised.

  “Death before dishonor soldier.”

  “To the grave,” Kiam vowed. He saluted his mentor then walked toward freedom, prepared to conquer the game.

  What he was not prepared for was Lissha’s beauty.

  Chapter 2

  Home Coming

  Lissha was posted up against her apple red 2012 Dodge Magnum in the parking lot of the prison at nine o’clock sharp. She reflected on her specific orders from Daddy as she awaited the man of the hour. Forty minutes later, Kiam emerged from the front doors of the penitentiary. Lissha noticed that the pictures she had seen of him did not accurately reflect what he looked like in the flesh.

  “Got damn,” she fidgeted as he drew near. His chocolate, well-chiseled, frame moved swiftly toward her. Instantly she felt the kitty tingle as his eyes met hers. She crossed her legs at the ankle to slow the pulse that was beating fast below.

  Kiam put some stride in his step as he looked up and saw Lissha waving him over. Her pretty pecan tan glowed in the sunlight. Her sandy brown shoulder length hair draped the sides of her face accentuating her high cheek bones. His eyes moved all over her 5’8” 135-pound figure, enjoying the journey.

  Her breast sat up like two ripe melons and the curve of her hips in those skinny jeans had his dick asking him questions that he damn sure wanted to answer. Then Big Zo’s words echoed loudly,

  Temptation befalls many. If you succumb to it…

  Damn, Pop, he shook his head. Sensing that Lissha was probably picking up on his vibe, he quickly threw a little smile on his face.

  “Look at you, all cheesed up.” She smiled and extended her arms to receive him.

  “What’s up, ma?” He reached in and hugged her tightly.

  Kiam felt the magnetism between them as the heat from her body embraced him. Her scent caressed his nostrils as her silky skin melted in his hands. It had been years since he held a woman in his arms and her perfect frame was the welcome he needed. He inhaled deeply, wanting to grip tighter, but Pops warning rang in his ears as if they were being shouted out on a mega phone. “Don’t fuck my daughter.”

  Kiam abruptly pulled back.

  “Why you acting all scary? Did Daddy threaten you?” She flashed him that pretty smile of hers, then giggled.

  “Nah. None needed. His instructions were clear and I’m going to carry them out or die trying.” He got real serious erasing the smile completely from his face.

  “Well, let’s go,” Lissha popped the locks with the remote, and headed to her side.

  Kiam hopped in and sank into his seat. He knew that everything from this point on would be a test and he intended on passing with flying colors.

  Lissha and Kiam drove for hours before they reached Cleveland, Ohio. Kiam was looking out the window taking in the many changes that had been made to the city since he last set foot on its soil. Traveling down Superior Avenue he saw that some of the hoods had received a facelift, but he knew without a doubt that those grimy streets were the same cesspool that they had always been.

  The laughter and conversation that filled the vehicle was cut short when Lissha pulled into the 7all apartments, looked up and saw her right hand, Treebie, coming toward them at a rapid pace.

  Lissha threw the car in park and jumped out.

  Kiam watched as the intense conversation between the two went back and forth. He reached over to the driver’s side and let the window down to get a better idea of what was going on.

  Kiam eyed the female Lissha was talking to. There was a slight resemblance between them, but not a strong enough one for him to mistake them for family. Like Lissha, she had soft brown skin and high cheekbones. Her hair was a little shorter than Lissha’s and a small dimple in her left cheek stood out. Even though she was rocking baggy clothes Kiam could see she was well put together. “What the fuck you mean the spot got hit?” Lissha questioned vehemently.

&nbs
p; “I know that nigga Finch was behind that shit. Bayonna called me about an hour ago and said that nigga is holed up at his girl’s house on 144th and St. Clair. I’m ready to do this.” Treebie pounded her fist in her hand.

  Lissha angrily about faced back toward her vehicle. She gripped the steering wheel tightly as she calculated her next move.

  Treebie retrieved a black bag from her truck and passed it to Lissha. “The whistles are inside,” she instructed before she peeled off.

  Lissha quickly unzipped the bag and handed Kiam a 9mm German Luger, a Glock .40 and two silencers. Kiam didn’t hesitate accepting them. He hadn’t even set his feet on the ground yet, but that didn’t faze him anymore than the shit he did to Supreme last night. He instinctively began to assemble his new toys.

  Lissha pulled her custom-made pearl handled .380 from the bag, checked the clip, and then slid it between her legs. Satisfied that her “baby” was ready, she threw the car in gear and mashed out.

  The ride was silent as Lissha zipped through the streets. Kiam asked no questions. No words were necessary; he wasn’t new to the game. He was set to killah mode. A nigga had fucked up and a strong example was about to be set.

  Twenty minutes later, Lissha pulled up a block away from Finch’s girl’s house. She surveyed the area, spotting Finch’s red BMW 6 Series in the driveway. She grabbed her sneakers out of the back seat, tossing her heels aside. Kiam stood watch as she laced up, rising to her feet with her heat in hand.

  “What this nigga look like?” he grimaced.

  “Medium built, short afro, and he has a tattoo of a diamond under his left eye.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Lissha turned toward the house and Kiam was right on her heels. He moved with the stealth of a panther. As they approached the driveway Treebie, who had already been waiting, emerged from the side of the house. She moved low-key with her fo-fifth at her side.