At All Cost

By Drako Sullivan

This is your invitation to Sam Wests and Santoss underworld. Two friends united by circumstances but bonded by their will to survive and their determination to make it in the cold streets of St.Paul Minnesota. Just when they thought it was their time to shine, they came to find out that they bit off more than they can chew...
Nevada West was trapped in a world of his own, forced to leave his family for the greater good but driven to keep them safe from the shadows...
Martha and Lolita refuse to continue being a burden to their younger brothers and being part of the main reason that Sam and Santos are in the game. So they decide to take matters in their own hands and are willing to bare it all...
Alexander Johnson a.k.a. Greenz, is the man for sure with the mind and muscle to move millions. After gaining control of a large amount of cocaine and with the soldiers to move it, Greenz invaded the Twin Cities with a plan to be a successful business man and turn his Crip bothers from gangsters to gentlemen...
Everyone got their own mission but are they willing to accomplish it at all cost????

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: May 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781466918184

Drako Sullivan

JORGE LANDRIAN, BORN IN CUBA CAME TO AMERICA IN THE 1980's. ARMED WITH A DREAM AND MANY TALENTS HE IS TRULY BLESSED TO BE LIVING IT. HE IS CURRENTLY WORKING ON HIS NEXT NOVEL" THE CUBAN CODE". HE RESIDES IN TWIN FALLS, IDAHO.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The eighteen wheeler went into the last rest area in the outskirts of Iowa, right before entering Minnesota. The middle age, slightly over-weight white man behind the wheel was tired and wanted to rest a little before entering the last leg of the trip. It had been a long one, but that wasn’t the main reason for his weariness; after all, the road was his domain; it was all he had ever done since he had gotten his commercial drivers license seventeen years ago. His weariness was mostly mental because, even though he didn’t know exactly what was inside the trailer he had brought all the way up from Houston, Texas, he did know one thing: he hadn’t been paid fifty-thousand dollars for transporting cotton candy and wouldn’t have had two light-gray Chevy Tahoe’s escorting him all the way. The minute he parked, the four white men in the Tahoes left their trucks and walked up to him the way they had been doing the whole trip. What’s up, Red? asked the one named Mike as Red jumped off the rig.

Nothing Just a little tired, that’s all.

How long are you going to need?

Probably an hour. I want to take a piss and stretch my legs a little.

Okay, go ahead. We will be here watching the truck for you.

Yeah… thanks. I’ll be back in a few.

Take your time, Red.

Once Red was out of hearing range, Mike spoke to a skinny, 6' tall guy, so white and blond he looked like an albino. Jason, go keep an eye on Red, would you? The man left to do as he was told without a word. Turning to a dark-haired 6'3 tall, bearded white man in cowboy clothing, Mike issued his next orders. Will, you can go use the restrooms and get you something to eat or drink, then come back so Curtis can get his turn. I’ll go last this time."

Okay. Was all the man said before taking off down the middle of the road, admiring the symmetry of the park with its freshly mowed lawns and trimmed up bushes. The beauty of the place was pleasing to his eyes and the coolness of the approaching evening stimulating to his senses. ‘It would all be wonderful,’ he thought. ‘If it wasn’t for he acrid smell of diesel and the carbon monoxide coming from so many vehicles to spoil the ambience.’

* * *

Fifty yards away, inside an ordinary looking cargo van, a young, light-skinned black man with long french braids and long sleeved blue and white flannel shirt worn over heavily starched, pressed to a sharp crease, Boss blue jeans, had been giving orders of his own to the four Crips in the van with him. You all ready, cuz… ?

You know I’m ready, Bones, said a skinny, short black boy called Gunz.

How ’bout you, Larry?

You know me, cuz. Just say when.

Hollywood?

Always up to no good!

Lionel?

Ready to put it down.

A’ight, cuz. Let’s go get our shit. The five black men came out of the van and moved towards the semi-trailer and Tahoes they had been following since they had left Houston, Texas. Two strolled casually up the middle of the road in animated conversation as if returning to their rigs. The two were dressed in faded Levi jeans, long sleeve working khaki shirts, Caterpillar boots and gray baseball caps with the yellow and black Caterpillar trademark emblem on the fronts. The other three moved up into the darkening woods and ran as fast as possible to come out from behind the parked semi-trailers up the road; five black men approaching parked trailers, even though spread out and at intervals, would have drawn undued attention because, black truckers were few and in a higher age range than these young men were.

* * *

Mike stood with his back against the semi’s fender smoking a cigarette, his left foot resting against the front tire and his left arm resting against his knee. His full head of salt and pepper, longish hair and his protruding beer belly gave him the appearance of a man a little older than his forty-five years of age. When he saw the two young black truckers coming up the road, he took one last drag off his cigarette and flicked it away watching it arch through the air in a small shower of sparks, then, reaching behind his back he gripped the butt of the .38 special tucked under his black and green windbreaker.

Curtis?

Yeah…

How do you feel ’bout ’em?

About who, Mike?

Them, said Mike jerking his head to the side in the general direction of the advancing youth.

Oh well… they don’t bother me. Not as long as they stay on their side of the fence.

Would it bother you if your daughter brought one of them home?"

Heck yeah, man! That’s my side of the fence, know what I mean?

Yeah, I got you.

What about you, Mike?

Well, Curtis, I was born and raised in Compton, California. Grew up with blacks as next door neighbors, broke bread, hustled and even went to jail with them. Shit man, I have a fifteen and twenty-three year old boys with the sweetest black woman in the world. As a matter a fact, that’s my son Lionel right there, he said as the black guys walked up to them. Curtis was surprised by Mike’s statement, but not as surprised as he became when he saw him pull back the hammer on his .38 and stuck it right under his throat. Don’t move a muscle, Curtis, said Mike pressing harder with the gun barrel as his son moved around Curtis to relieve him of the gun behind his back.

Let’s go dude, move! Ordered Lionel pushing Curtis forward while Larry held the door of the nearest Tahoe open for him. While Curtis was getting his mouth duck taped and his hands and feet cuffed up, Hones, Gunz and Hollywood took up positions to lay in wait for the return of the other three men.

* * *

‘Funny guy.’ Thought Red watching the albino-looking man do a terrible job of looking inconspicuous by the vending machines. The man had been trying so hard not to seem to have been following him, that he looked comical every time Red purposely stopped all of sudden just to catch him flat footed.

As he took a swig of his apple juice bottle to wash down the last bite of his tuna fish sandwich, Red saw the tall, bearded Will come out of the restroom and head for the vending machines. Tired of the silly game he had been playing with the albino—looking man, Red drank the last of his juice, tossed the empty plastic bottle into a recycling bin and took off up the road towards the waiting rig. Checking his trusty ten year old Timex, Red realized he had only been gone for thirty-three minutes, but suddenly, he just wanted to get to where he was going and rid himself of both, the scary cargo and his present company.

I didn’t expect you back so soon, Red, said Mike coming from inside the Tahoe closest to the semi.

Well, I’m ready to go.

Already then, fire her up.

Red opened the door and was badly startled by the sight of the black man leaning back in the passenger side seat, a chromed .45 semi-automatic laying across his chest pointed in his direction. Wzup, Red, said the light-skinned long haired young man. Come on in and do your thang. Name’s Bones ’cause I used to like breaking people’s fingers, but, now I use this instead, he said tapping the gun against his chest. When people piss me off by not doing what they’ve told. Red hesitated long enough to look back at Mike.

Mike nodded his head and said, I would do as he said, Red.

Red got behind the wheel and not even five minutes later, watched as four black men aided by Mike disarmed Jason and Will and made them get into the nearest Tahoe. What Red did not see, was the skinny black boy named Gunz use his silenced .45 to gun down the prisoners inside the SUV. The black guys used knives to slice the SUV’s tires off, then got into the empty Tahoe with Mike and drove to the parked van some distance down the road, where two guys got out of the vehicle and into the van. Once the van got started up the road followed by the SUV, the black man named Bones spoke again. Okay, Red. Let’s hit the road.

* * *

Good job, guys, said Mike from behind the wheel.

Yo, pops… you think that Scicolone dude ain’t gonna know you was in on this with us?

Think about it, son, his men will be found dead in the truck and I’m no where to be found. Of course he’s gonna know. I want him to know. He set my man Antonio Rivera up with the feds so he could take over the business, so this is my way of paying him back. Yeah… he knows. I’m the only man who knew the truck and the route, other than his truck driver; may the son-of-a-bitch rest in hell

Where did you meet this one at? asked the son pointing at the semi they had just hijacked with 1,500 kilos of cocaine in it.

Red? He’s harmless. Don’t know him, but, I know his kind. When I first laid eyes on him at a truck stop in Houston wearing his worn out blue jeans, faded ol’ shirt and raggedy tennis shoes I knew he was my man. Trucking all his life, I figured, and nothing to show for it. Probably a greedy, fat, unfaithful white trash bitch at a trailer park somewhere waiting to spend his money. I offered him fifty-thousand to drive and ask no questions and he went along.

Are we gonna pop his ass, too when we get there? asked Gunz from the back seat.

Naw… not him. We’ll baby sit him at a hotel room while we empty the trailer, then we’ll let him go.

Why go through all that trouble? It would be easier to just pop ’im off, insisted Gunz.

Because I like the man, Gunz. He’s harmless.

Shit… I like you too, my man, but I would pop yo’ ass if I had to.

Yo, Gunz… that’s my pops you talking to, fool.

Yeah, yeah, my bad, cuz. I’m just sayin’ though. What if the dude decide to go to the cops on us.

He won’t. I know where he lives because I followed him there. I’ll be sure to let him know before I let him go so he doesn’t get any ideas.

A’ight then, said Gunz leaning back against the comfortable seat and closing his eyes. I’ve killed enough mu’fuckaz for one day anyway.

CHAPTER 2

Sam, there goes your sister.

I see her, nigga; why can’t you stop staring at her so mu’fuckin’ much.

Hey, we best friends and all that, but… I ain’t blind my nigga. She’s the finest girl around here. No disrespect.

Look, Santos, yo’ sister Lolita’s one of the prettiest mamas itas on the west side, but you don’t see me staring at her around you.

What about when I ain’t around, homes?

Well… that’s different.

Fuck that! Looking is looking, homes.

Yeah… but at least I ain’t disrespecting you.

Neither am I, I’m just keeping it one hundred with you. You stare at Lolita behind my back, so I know I can never trust you with her because you’re hiding your intentions.

What about you… can I trust you with my sister, Martha?

That’s my word, homes. I promise I would take care of her and all our kids.

Santos, I would kill my own sister before she gives me a bunch of wet back nephews.

Nigga, you know I was born here. I ain’t no wet back.

So what, you ain’t special. I was born here too, but a bunch of racist muthafuckaz want me in Africa. Like I could just get there and find my cousins and auntie’s and shit. I can’t even find my own daddy right here in America, dog; and the nigga might be living a couple miles right down the road.

Yeah—wouldn’t it be some shit if your dad turned out to be one of the dudes getting fucked up off our dope?

Yeah, it would. Especially if the mu’fucka decided to stop buying from us, said Samuel tilting his head back to laugh, the diamonds in his two platinum upper front teeth blinging as he did so.

Hell, man… we can always tell his dead beat ass the dope’s all mine; no need to lose a customer.

As they laughed, Samuel’s eyes followed his sisters car until its break lights came on and she turned into the driveway.

We’re making it happen, Sam, you and I; both our sisters are going to college, said Santos a far-a-way look in his eyes.

Yeah, bro. We’re some bad niggaz, said Sam knowing what was going through his best friends mind. Santos had been only ten years old when he had gone to Totem Town—a juvenile correctional facility in St. Paul—for gunning his father down. The boy had waken up to find his drunken father beating up on his mother one time to many. The judge would have release him a lot sooner if Santos and his new found friend, Samuel West hadn’t kept escaping at every chance they got, to come make money selling rocks for Big Joe on the east side. Sam and Santos, being the only men in their immediate families, had sworn to each other to provide for their mother and sisters until they married somebody that would look out for them.

We’ve done good.

Uh-huh. Wanna smoke one?

Shit, is the Pope Catholic?

Who knows what that dude is. Open the glove box.

You’re a pig-headed mu’fucka, Sam. I’ve told you a thousand times not to keep your weed in the glove compartment. You’ll never have enough time to toss it out the window if the police rides up on you.

Fuck the police, Santos. I ain’t tossing my good weed out the window; that dro’s more expensive than that lil’ ass fine they’ll hit a mu’fucka with.

No need to keep adding to your criminal record, though. A few years from now we plan on becoming legitimate businessmen, ain’t we?

Businessmen smoke weed too.

Yeah, so does President Clinton, but he ain’t got a record for it?

Santos?

What’s up? he answered turning the blunt in his fingers to get it lit evenly."

Why the fuck we argue about every fucking thing?

Shit… I never thought about it, he said passing the blunt. Maybe it’s because we are not afraid to disagree with each other.

Like our friendship’s secured, added Sam.

Something like that. I ain’t got to kiss your black ass for you to know I would bleed for you.

Same here! said Sam choking on the smoke.

I know this, but pass the blunt. No need, to hold the mu’fucka while you choke to death, is there?

Hey, don’t forget it’s my birthday tomorrow, dog.

Santos’ voice came out strained from speaking while holding the marijuana smoke trapped in his lungs. How could I forget when you keep reminding me, dog?

Man, you were worse than me when you turned eighteen, said Samuel.

I had good reason. A twenty-two year old honey had been waiting for me to get legal so she could tear my ass up. You’re just turning eighteen with nothing to look forward to, but a present from me.

How do you know me and Lolita ain’t about to start kicking it?

Because my sister and yours are on the same page; they both want a better life than we can offer.

Santos?

What up?

You’re smarter than me. Shit… you’re smarter than Martha and Lolita put together. Why don’t you go to college and let me do this… I can hold us all down ’til you guys get the big MD’s and PHD’s after y’all’s names.

Oh, yeah—and who’s gonna look after your dumb ass out here while I’m at school?

I can handle this shit, man. I ain’t that dumb.

Dumb enough to be riding dirty all the time.

Shit, Santos. You keep weed and heat in your car too.

Yep, and a bitch to carry my weed in her drawers and my heat in her purse.

Whatever, bro. What time we’re getting together to celebrate tomorrow?

Be clean as fuck by seven o’clock. We’re going down to the Pool Hall by the Sunray’s Shopping Center.

Do black people be in there? Why can’t we go somewhere like: The Lamplighter, The Payne Reliever, The King of Diamonds or any other strip joint?

We will, but first we go to the Pool Hall to see this dime piece I want you to meet.

Man, I got to get this whip shined up and ready to roll.

Yeah, your rims are a little dusty, bro.

I’ll bring it to the Downtowner on 7th Street tomorrow morning; them niggaz know how to hook a niggaz whip up.

CHAPTER 3

Sam entered the Pool Hall’s lot and spotting his best friend’s red Explorer parked facing the entrance, pulled up next to it. His black 2003 Yukon