The Ultimate Heist
Accustomed to a life of luxury, Shannon Marshall is devastated to lose everything after her husband, Todd, is sent to prison for gun running. So when Todd plans the ultimate stickup from behind bars, Shannon’s ready to put her neck on the line. But she’ll have to pull off the hustle of a lifetime and play one dangerous gangster who always gets what he wants…
DEA Agent Jordan Hayes has vowed to never walk in her ex-con father’s footsteps. Suspecting her father is planning another robbery, she begins keeping close tabs on him and his crony—sexy gangster Keston Bishop. Jordan soon becomes addicted to the danger that radiates from Keston like street candy as she takes part in a daring theft that could cost her everything...
“Kiki captures the heat of the streets.” —Wahida Clark
“Diamond tells it like it is.” —Publishers Weekly on Heartbreaker
CRASH! BANG! “What the fuck?!” I was out of bed and on my
feet with one big jump when I heard the sounds of crashing glass
and wood smashing. I immediately started searching the side of
my bed for my ratchet. I felt down around on the floor in the place
I usually kept it.
“Fuck,” I cursed as the sounds grew louder and louder. Shannon
had moved my shit. I told her not to ever move my shit without
telling me. She was always so worried about guns being around
“What the fuck!” I exclaimed as I heard feet thundering in my
direction. My heart pounded through my wife-beater like the shit
was going to jump loose of my chest bones. My mind was not
foggy with sleep anymore; I was wide awake and on alert.
I didn’t know if it was jealous motherfuckers from the hood or
those hating-ass five-o bastards who had a vendetta against me,
banging up my fucking minimansion doors. The shit sounded like
a fucking earthquake was happening right there in my crib. At first
I didn’t hear them say “POLICE!” but as soon as I was facing
down the end of an MP5, I knew what the fuck was up.
“Get on the floor! Get the fuck on the floor!”
Those commands were very familiar. I put my hands up, folded
them behind my head, and assumed the position. I was pushed
down to the floor roughly, and about five of those bastards
dropped knees in my back and legs. My arms were yanked behind
my back, and I was cuffed and made to lie facedown on my own
fucking floor. Those fucking pigs were swarming my crib like flies
around a pile of freshly dropped shit. It seemed like there were a
million of them. All of them against just me.
“Punk bitches,” I grumbled under my breath. I recognized one
of them—a big-headed white boy who thought he was the shit. A
snake motherfucker named Labeckie. He was the sergeant of the
Norfolk Police Department’s narcotics and gun unit, and he hated
“Take out that wall! Tear this fucking place up until we find
some shit!” I heard that bastard yell as he looked down at me and
I closed my eyes when I heard them axing down walls and cabinets.
Didn’t they fucking know they could’ve just opened that shit
up? My mind was racing, and I immediately hoped that Shannon
didn’t walk in on this shit with Lil Todd.
I lay there, facedown, knowing right away that somebody in my
camp had snitched. I knew my gun-running shit and five-o radar
were airtight. There was no fucking way they could have known
about my operation unless somebody told them. It had been three
years since I had done my last bid on a drug charge, and when I got
home, I had gone into a different line of work. Before I got knocked
on the trumped-up drug charges, I was one of the biggest kingpins
in the Norfolk area. I had all of Tidewater on lock, and I was bringing
in at least fifty thousand a week. Almost all of the trap boys in
the area were employed by me. I ran a tight ship, and the narcos
found it hard to get my ass. The cops who arrested me the last time
weren’t gonna rest until they got my ass. I had beat so many
charges because of my high-paid attorney, and those fucking pigs
were mad as hell, so when they finally got me on some ol’ caught
slipping shit, they was happy as hell.
When I came home, I promised my wife I was leaving the drug
game behind me—the money, the bitches, and the fucking five-o
too. I knew she was tired of riding with me through all this bullshit,
so I told her I was going legit, and that is exactly what I did . . .
at first. I opened my own short-distance trucking company. That
shit was all good, but it wasn’t enough money for me. Shannon was
used to living a certain lifestyle, and I was going to provide it. I got
into the gun-running shit by coincidence, and it was all up from
there. I was bringing in cake, and my wife and kid were fucking
happy. I was sure I was careful, and I surrounded myself with only
a few cats who I thought were real. It seems one of those motherfuckers
wasn’t a real cat but a fucking snake-ass rat.
These bastard-ass cops had me facedown on the floor for mad
long. The circulation in my hands felt like it was completely cut
off. All I could hear was them destroying my beautiful home and
rummaging through my shit. I bit into my cheek until I drew blood
when I heard one of them whistle and say, “Hmm, the missus must
be a pretty bitch—look at these pretty-ass panties.” Then the bastard
took a long sniff and said, “Ahhhh, pretty pussy smell. Think
I could fuck his wife while he does his life sentence?” and then he
started laughing. I squirmed around with the handcuffs biting into
my skin. He was so lucky I was shackled like an animal or else I
would’ve fucked his ass up. Shannon was my world, and I didn’t
want a nigga, especially a bitch-ass pig, even looking in her direction.
“Yo, these cuffs is tight!” I called out while they continued
going through my shit.
“I don’t give a fuck! You lucky we don’t hog-tie you like the animal
you are,” the pig guarding me barked in my ear. His punk ass
knew if I could get out of the fucking handcuffs, his wig would be
It seemed like they were searching for days when one of them
yelled, “Jackpot! I knew we would find something!” I just shut my
eyes and thought about Shannon and our little man. I was a three
striker, and my ass was going down. I had always made it a practice
not to bring my shit where I live, but Jock—one of my boys—had
met up with me the night before with a military-grade AK47 left
over from his sales meeting. Apparently the cats he met up with
had gotten cold feet on that shit and didn’t buy it, leaving Jock to
drive around with the shit on his way back to Norfolk. Jock was
shook and didn’t know where to take the shit, so being the man I
am, I met up with Jock and took that load off of him. My intention
had been to get that shit sold today. Either I was a few hours short
or I was set the fuck up.
“Yo, I get a phone call, right?” I asked as two cops hauled me up
off the floor.
“Don’t ask for shit!” one of them barked.