The Sequel

  Boyz in Blue 2

  -Nadir

  Boyz in Blue 2

  Copyright © 2024 by Nadir Simmonds

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States of America.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or person, living or dead, is coincidental.

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at wordtovince@gmail.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Word To Vince Publishing, LLC

  Table of contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Catalog

  Stay Connected

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Sprinting along Franklin Avenue in the Crown Heights section of Brooklyn, New York, a boy dodges in-and-out of traffic in an earnest attempt to evade his pursuers. Starting his pursuit for safety at the intersects of Franklin Avenue and Empire Boulevard, where he caught a mob’s attention, he made it to Union Street four drags away, thus far. The compact one-way thoroughfare was filled with pedestrians, many of whom cowered away in obvious fear of the mob swarming the area like a troubled beehive. Asking anyone for assistance would be a waste of time; it was clear he was doomed if he didn’t get away from the gang hot on his heels.

  Where was the police when he needed them? Usually, the law men would be out on the street harassing someone, but now that there were over a hundred persons chasing him, they were nowhere to be found. What’s the odds of that?

  Approaching Eastern Parkway, he figured if he made it to the other side of the busy thoroughfare, he would be safe. His friends would be outside to confront the mob to his rear.

  Perspiration drenched his clothing as he raced along the avenue, his heart raced out of control, beating loud enough for him to hear the strong thuds. His short lifetime flashed before his eyes. Would he be killed if captured by his pursuers? Or would they just beat him to a bloody pulp? If, by some chance, they caught up to him, he hoped for the latter. At just 16 years of age, he was not ready to die. He had a lot to live for. Life had not even started for him yet.

  Shooting across Eastern Parkway through incoming traffic, he was lucky enough to make it to the other side of the wide road without being knocked down by fast moving vehicles. Pausing for a second to see if he was still being chased, he began to cry when seeing the angry mob pouring across the parkway. Up ahead at Lincoln Place, he could see the block was vacant of occupants. Absolutely no one was outside, a rarity on the particular street. Usually, his friends would be out holding down the fort on their block, but today was different. Were they pre-warned about the emergence of the angry mob chasing him and forgot to tell him they were coming? Why else wouldn’t they be outside?

  Making it to Lincoln Place, he stopped to catch his breath. Kneeling and placing both hands on his knees, he heaved in-and-out in an attempt to catch his breath. Looking around at the strip he called home, childhood memories came to mind. Hustlers were a staple on Lincoln Place, marijuana, and crack dealers. The narrow strip of apartment buildings was a prominent domain in Brooklyn, its notorious reputation reverberated widespread. Because of his block’s repute, he was almost untouchable on the streets. “I’m from Lincoln Place,” he would voice with confidence whenever out and about with friends. Persons usually looked the other way when he made mention of his neighborhood. There was no other place in the world he would rather be from. It was Lincoln Place or no place; or so was the axiom at one point in time.

  Coming back to reality, he realized his block’s reputation, at the current moment, mattered none, especially when it came to the mob in pursuit of him. If it did, they would not have followed him home. They would not have come across Eastern Parkway for him.

  “Don’t move you fucking slob!” barked someone a part of the mob.

  The mob was only a few feet away now and he could hear the anger in their tones for what he represented. As a second-generation New York Blood, he wore his gang on his sleeve, representing it to the fullest. Every time he came outside, he wore his red badge of honor, as he referred to his flag, a bandanna of red hue. Though he was from Lincoln Place, the entire Franklin Avenue, widely known as FA in the Brooklyn circles, was his playground. When the Bloods gang hit Franklin Avenue, the entire strip joined forces with the dominate outfit, including himself. He could walk up-and-down the avenue and find Bloods, just as in the rest of Crown Heights, the NYC Bloods gang capital. Determined to keep the neighborhood a red zone, he clashed with resistors of the movement whenever they emerged on the scene, namely the newfangled Flatbush Crips and Ebbets Fields Gangster Disciples who’d formed a pact to go up against the Bloods. A few of the opposing gang members attended Prospect Heights, a high school located on Union Street, a strip intersecting Franklin Avenue. He and his friends usually would go up there to beat up on the Crips and Gangster Disciples in the name of the Blood gang, usually to no repercussions of importance. However, today was different. Today the Crips had shown up in unprecedented numbers, along with their allies, the Gangster Disciples.

  Within seconds he was surrounded by the mean faced gang bangers.

  “What up now, slob?” a few out the pack questioned.

  Looking up from his stooped position, with his last bit of energy, he tossed up the capital B sign with his fingers. Whatever was to come would come. He was a Blood and there was nothing anyone could do about it. If he had to, he would die a Blood.

  The bangers attacked him, bringing on an early demise to his short life.

  1

  Confined to the Bing for three long months, Spade was ecstatic to be released back into the jail’s population. Following an incident in 4 Main, in which he nearly killed another inmate, he was sent to the Bing for a 90-day period. Finally, through serving his time of cell-confinement, he couldn’t wait to get things organized among his troops in population.

  “Chi-Town,” Spade called from his cell. “I’m up out a here, cuz. C6 just came to my cell and told me to pack up.”

  “Damn, folk, you leaving me here all by myself?” Chi-Town asked in a disappointed tone.

  Meeting Chi-Town while in the Bing, Spade built a tight bond with the boy, who was a member of the Gangster Disciples, a close ally of the Crips. Originating in Chicago, Chi-Town came to New York with hopes and dreams of making it big in the rap-game. His aspirations, however, were short lived. While staying in Harlem, he was hassled on a daily basis by the Bloods gang, who ruled over the neighborhood he made his home. Growing tired of the constant disrespect received from the Bloods, he diverted back to what he did best back in Chicago, gang banging. Attending a neighborhood block party one day, he approached a group of Bloods in attendance and opened fire on the dense crowd, killing three persons. Captured for the crime, he was sent to Rikers Island where the seemingly never-ending drama continued with the Bloods. Spotted by some Harlem Bloods, word quickly spread of what he did in the streets and points were put on his head. He became a target; everywhere he landed in the building he was moved on by the Bloods and their affiliates. However, he never backed down from his foes. Every time he set foot in an enemy house, he made it hot like fire, attacking anyone within close proximity. For this, the Bing became his indefinite home.

  “Yeah, kinfolk,” replied Spade. “Time to get back out there in the jungle to battle with the slobs. Hopefully, they send me back to 4 Main with the Loc’s, but if not, you already know I’m a make it hot everywhere I go. You may see me sooner than later.”

  Spade felt a tad bit nervous about where he might end up. Most houses in the building were Blood domains, off-limits to Crips and other opposing factors. Besides 4 Main, Mod 4 Lower was the only place he could live in the jail, and he would have to have the luck of the leprechaun to end up in any of the two houses. Regardless, he was prepared if he did land in a Bloods house. Armed with a scalpel, he kept the weapon always tucked away inside his rectum, prepared to shit it out and get to cutting someone.

  “Well, C6C out there my Crip brethren. Don’t let them faggots get close to you,” warned Chi-Town.

  “Trust me, kinfolk, I won’t.”

  Packing his belongings, Spade was escorted out the Bing and into a long, lighted corridor encased by a stretch of wall on one side and windows looking out into certain sections of the jail on the other. Taking in a deep breath of air, he felt free as a bird, even though he was still i n jail. It felt like a heavy burden had been lifted off his shoulders once he was let out the Bing. Thank God! Being locked in a cage for twenty-three hours out of a day was inhumane. No human being should have to experience such a thing in life, but prisoners, clearly, were considered less than human, or at least that’s what it seemed like on Rikers Island.

  Walking with his property in his hands, he noticed a house up ahead coming his way. His heart pumped with anticipation of a conflict when passing the house, a clear adult Blood unit. The prisoners clearly had him by, at the least, five years, but scoped him with mean faces, nonetheless. It didn’t matter that he was much younger than the men. A few of them tossed up their gang’s sign, caring nothing of the correction officers’ presence. Spade had learned long ago that many of the officers on the ‘island pledged allegiance to the United Blood Nation of America, or so he and the other Crips would say. The Bloods were allowed to get away with anything, but when it came to other gangs, they were disciplined in the most drastic way. Cracking a smile at the opposing gang members, Spade turned his attention to the seemingly long walk ahead. He would catch up to the Bloods on a later note in the journey.

  “Those guys looked like they wanted to drink your blood,” joked the correction officer escorting Spade, a rotund woman of African American descent.

  “They sure did,” he joked back.

  He didn’t find anything funny about the matter but didn’t want to get on the officer’s bad side. Possessing the power to drop him off in any house, he did not want to upset the woman and face retaliatory measures such as being placed in a known Blood house, so he maintained his cool.

  “Where you from?” asked the officer.

  “Brooklyn.”

  “What parts? I’m from Crown Heights.”

  Spade contemplated should he reveal his neighborhood seeing that the officer was from an opposing area, and probably had family members that were Bloods. It was a strong possibility the woman was affiliated with the Bloods being that she was from Crown Heights; revealing to her he was from Flatbush could lead to a drop off in a notorious Blood house. Nevertheless, he decided to tell her anyway.

  “Flatbush,” he said, spitting it out with confidence.

  “Oh. So, you a Crip?” smiled the officer. “That’s why them guys were looking at you like that.”

  It was known throughout Rikers Island that once one claimed to be from Flatbush, he was automatically labeled a Crip. None of the other prisoners from various other neighborhoods in the five boroughs got this type of treatment, only those from Flatbush. Known as the motherland of the new Crip wave, Flatbush was a marked territory. It was not wise for one to represent the particular area on Rikers Island. Bloods, literally, hunted persons from Flatbush on Rikers Island.

  “Nah,” he smiled.

  A significant rule among the Crips was to never reveal your affiliation to authority figures, an edict Spade stressed to other Crips. Unlike the Bloods, who openly flaunted their affiliation for the world to see, the Crips were more disciplined in their approach when it came to representing their gang in the presence of authority persons. Furthermore, admitting to the authorities one’s affiliation was a sign of weakness, of which Spade did not tolerate, especially on Rikers Island where the Crips were outnumbered 1-20. If ever he heard that a fellow gang member entered a house and expressed to correction officers his discomfort with living among Bloods because he was a Crip, Spade automatically dispelled the individual from the organization. The rules were simple, a decree highlighted in lessons every Crip should have had on Rikers Island: enter any house without fear; if it’s an enemy leer, make it as hot as possible by attacking the most accessible opposition to leave the house. The Crips were a secret society when it came to the police, and Spade planned on keeping it that way.

  “Yeah right,” smiled the officer.

  “Okay,” retorted Spade, shrugging his shoulders, caring nothing of how the officer felt. Who cares how this bitch feel?

  Brought to one of the most popular Blood houses in the building, 5 Main, Spade mentally prepared himself for battle. As the rest of housing units in the building, 5 Main was broken down into three sections, 5 Main on the main floor, 5 Upper on a floor above, and 5 Lower on a lower-level floor. Each section had a North and Southside with two galleries for captives on each side. Escorted through a door leading to the southside of 5 Main, Spade eyed a group of prisoners sitting around in a dayroom from the other side of a gate separating himself from the rest of the house.

  “We got a new admit,” said Spade’s escorting officer to a colleague inside a bubble-booth.

  “Okay,” responded the officer inside the bubble. “Head to cell 15,” he ordered Spade. Pressing down on a button inside the bubble, a door to let Spade inside the house sounded off like a buzzer.

  Inside the house, Spade went right to his cell, avoiding eye-contact with a few inmates out and about on the gallery, idling and talking among themselves. Placing his property on his cot, he found a corner section in the cell where he pulled his pants below his waist and kneeled. Straining until his rectum released his concealed razor, he washed up and went out into the dayroom. It was time to let his presence be known.

  Music by Hip-Hop’s sensation, DMX, blasted from a television set. Most of the house surrounded the boob tube to take in the rap superstar. “Where my dogs at?!” voiced a few enthused prisoners. “We right here, y’all!” replied a few others, jumping around as they sung to the DMX song.

  Spade, personally, hated DMX. There was nothing anyone could tell him; in his eyes, the rapper was a Blood and made music for his own kind, so he would never feel the entertainer’s music. While everyone rocked to the wannabe dog rapper, Spade surveyed the atmosphere. Already, he spotted out a few Bloods. Their clothing quickly gave them away. He decided to make his move while everyone was distracted by the music video.

  Walking up on a Blood, who was so busy rocking to the video that he didn’t see Spade approach from behind, he placed his scalpel to the boy’s face and drug it around to the back of his head.

  As everyone continued to rock to the video, not yet realizing what had taken place, the Blood turned to see who’d cut him. Grabbing his face where blood poured from an open wound, he let out a shrieking scream driving everyone to turn and look in his direction

  Swiping at the boy’s face again, Spade cut him a second and third time before turning his razor on the rest of Bloods. One boy, seemingly huge in build, put up his hands to fight while everyone else dispersed in all directions in apparent fear. The Blood was big, almost double Spade’s size, resembling the boy who attacked him in Mod 1 nearly killing him when he first came on the ‘island. Caring nothing of the Blood’s size, Spade got in a fighting stance and moved for the boy. Swinging his scalpel accurately, he cut the boy every time he swung the miniature metal object. The Blood fought back but Spade was too swift. Every time the Blood attempted to hit him, he weaved the blow and responded with slicing the boy on some part of his body. Eventually the Blood fell back in defeat, trying best to nurse his wounds.

  Energized, Spade hoped the rest of Bloods in the house would come to their homie’s rescue, but, after a while, he realized they would not. Besides the bloody Blood, Spade was the only one left in the dayroom, penetrating the wounded gang member with eagle-eyes, hoping he would make a wrong move so that he could continue his vicious attack. However, that never happened. And, as usual, the correction officers burst through the gate and hauled him off to the Bing. Again.

  2

  “It’s your call, Sue Blue,” said Turbo, shrugging his shoulders. “You’re the boss.”

  “Stop that, Turbo,” protested Sue Blue, standing at the center of a group of Crips inside 92 Park. “We in this together, cuz.”

  “Yeah, but you’re the head. Your word is law on these sides of town.”

  Sue Blue had to stop herself from responding to Turbo’s spill on things. It was cemented in stone that she was the head of all heads among the United Gangster Crips; her word was law throughout many neighborhoods in the city. Because of Spade, she’d evolved into a folklore figure in the streets. People spoke many tales of her existence, some true, most false, referred to her as boss, queen, and many other terms of endearment. Whenever she entered a room, everyone flocked to her. She was a Crip goddess, an essential figurehead a part of the growing craze in Brooklyn and had no choice but to accept what the streets had bestowed upon her.

 

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