right hand Zion had taken control of central Florida’s drug trade, and the money to be made was unbelievable.
Turning to his friend, Jago took another sip of his beer before speaking.
“Say bruhdren, we now own a city whose streets are paved with gold. No mon has ever done wat we are bout to do in dis city.”
Slowly nodding his head in agreement, Zion took a long pull off of the kush that he was smoking.
“I see it clearly bruhdren …”
Feeling the warm touch of the spring wind as it tugged at his linen attire, Jago gave Zion a jewel that Jahza had given to him years ago.
“Bruhdren allow no mon to detour your destiny. kings are created to rule.”
As visions of himself running the lucrative drug trade invaded Zion’s mind, his plot to over throw Jago began to form. Taking his last pull from the diminished blunt he was smoking, Zion squinted as he spoke,
“I agree bruhdren, no mon will detour my destiny.”
With that said, Zion had just given Jago a coded promise.
Making his way to the parking lot. Jago popped the trunk of his BMW and placed a duffle bag filled with raw bricks of cocaine inside. As Jago pulled off, Zion pulled out his phone and called the narcotic agent that had caught him slipping a week before
“Hello Mr. Washington, de gentleman dat we discussed is in route wit de package as we speak.”
Ending the phone call, a devilish grin began to spread across Zion’s face, knowing that life was about to change.
Ten minutes later as Jago drove down the highway, a state trooper appeared in his rear-view mirror, pulling behind him. As urgency filled his veins, Jago attempted to be cool so he slowed down and switched lanes. In a matter of moments, Jago found himself surrounded by sheriffs and federal agents. As the agents placed the cuffs on his wrists, he looked up at the tactical helicopter hovering in the air, knowing that there was a chance that he would never be free again….
After a lifetime of friendship based on loyalty, Zion had just sold his soul to the Feds in exchange for his freedom and an empire of which he was now the sole heir. Turning on the 10x12 inch smart T.V that rested in the console of his smoke gray Audi, Zion glanced at the news as the anchor woman gave the details of Jago’s drug bust. As he looked on, he felt a twinge of guilt, but immediately dismissed it as the fact that he was now the king of central Florida’s drug trade crossed his mind.
Smiling to himself, Zion turned up his stereo system as he lit a cigar, and headed to claim his throne… As his memories invaded and exited his thoughts, Zion began to break free of his slumber hearing a horn feverishly being honked. Opening his eyes, he could see that not much had changed in the slums of Kingston since he was young. Small dilapidated tenements lined the streets of the ghetto, as poverty stricken children and stray goats wondered about.
Stepping out of her Land Rover, Patra escorted Zion through a beaten path that lead to a clearing behind the warehouse that they had just parked in front of. As they stepped into the clearing, a brutally beaten body could be seen with it’s out stretched limbs tied to stakes in the ground. While Patra’s disloyal employee struggled to remain conscious, flies swarmed around him, hovering around and landing on his open wounds.
Taking in the scene, Zion allowed Patra to handle her business as he stood in silent observation. Walking closer to the struggling man, Patra looked down at him with disgust in her eyes as she stood over him. As her voice left her delicate throat, it was as soft as velvet, yet as firm as steal. “Well Judas, I see dat you have placed yourself in a compromising position. How is it dat I pay you so well, yet you still steal from me?”
Parting his lips to speak, the man’s voice began to tremble sensing death in the air,
“p... p... please…”
Before he could utter
Turning to his friend, Jago took another sip of his beer before speaking.
“Say bruhdren, we now own a city whose streets are paved with gold. No mon has ever done wat we are bout to do in dis city.”
Slowly nodding his head in agreement, Zion took a long pull off of the kush that he was smoking.
“I see it clearly bruhdren …”
Feeling the warm touch of the spring wind as it tugged at his linen attire, Jago gave Zion a jewel that Jahza had given to him years ago.
“Bruhdren allow no mon to detour your destiny. kings are created to rule.”
As visions of himself running the lucrative drug trade invaded Zion’s mind, his plot to over throw Jago began to form. Taking his last pull from the diminished blunt he was smoking, Zion squinted as he spoke,
“I agree bruhdren, no mon will detour my destiny.”
With that said, Zion had just given Jago a coded promise.
Making his way to the parking lot. Jago popped the trunk of his BMW and placed a duffle bag filled with raw bricks of cocaine inside. As Jago pulled off, Zion pulled out his phone and called the narcotic agent that had caught him slipping a week before
“Hello Mr. Washington, de gentleman dat we discussed is in route wit de package as we speak.”
Ending the phone call, a devilish grin began to spread across Zion’s face, knowing that life was about to change.
Ten minutes later as Jago drove down the highway, a state trooper appeared in his rear-view mirror, pulling behind him. As urgency filled his veins, Jago attempted to be cool so he slowed down and switched lanes. In a matter of moments, Jago found himself surrounded by sheriffs and federal agents. As the agents placed the cuffs on his wrists, he looked up at the tactical helicopter hovering in the air, knowing that there was a chance that he would never be free again….
After a lifetime of friendship based on loyalty, Zion had just sold his soul to the Feds in exchange for his freedom and an empire of which he was now the sole heir. Turning on the 10x12 inch smart T.V that rested in the console of his smoke gray Audi, Zion glanced at the news as the anchor woman gave the details of Jago’s drug bust. As he looked on, he felt a twinge of guilt, but immediately dismissed it as the fact that he was now the king of central Florida’s drug trade crossed his mind.
Smiling to himself, Zion turned up his stereo system as he lit a cigar, and headed to claim his throne… As his memories invaded and exited his thoughts, Zion began to break free of his slumber hearing a horn feverishly being honked. Opening his eyes, he could see that not much had changed in the slums of Kingston since he was young. Small dilapidated tenements lined the streets of the ghetto, as poverty stricken children and stray goats wondered about.
Stepping out of her Land Rover, Patra escorted Zion through a beaten path that lead to a clearing behind the warehouse that they had just parked in front of. As they stepped into the clearing, a brutally beaten body could be seen with it’s out stretched limbs tied to stakes in the ground. While Patra’s disloyal employee struggled to remain conscious, flies swarmed around him, hovering around and landing on his open wounds.
Taking in the scene, Zion allowed Patra to handle her business as he stood in silent observation. Walking closer to the struggling man, Patra looked down at him with disgust in her eyes as she stood over him. As her voice left her delicate throat, it was as soft as velvet, yet as firm as steal. “Well Judas, I see dat you have placed yourself in a compromising position. How is it dat I pay you so well, yet you still steal from me?”
Parting his lips to speak, the man’s voice began to tremble sensing death in the air,
“p... p... please…”
Before he could utter
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