2pac Body Double Above The Rim Novels & Stories

Mark became so comfortable and confident that he began rhythmically nodding his head to the club dj's Latin hip-hop mash-up of Daddy Yankee, De La Ghetto and Vico C. There was a sinister reason behind why 2Pac wasn’t fighting back. He was scanning Mark’s suit to see if he could find any integrity violations. The metal soldier went through his database of past prisoners he executed, and he searched for the cleanest and most efficient way to kill Mark.

“I can’t put this in that!” The gang mumbled their apologies while the leader shook his head in frustration and stood in a solid stance, legs apart, between her legs. Six of his followers pulled her body up, making it convenient for Jocko to enter her while remaining on his feet. Another member placed a lit cigarette between Jocko’s lips. He took a long, slow drag on it before pummeling his body toward Pam’s fragile remnants.

He found her with the lazy confidence of muscle memory: shoulder black against tint, cheekbone pale, hands steady like they’d forgotten how to shake. “Contact,” Frank said, voice flat. “Twelfth floor, west wing balcony. Suppressed rig, low profile, probably a custom can. She’s staged. We’re late to her party.” It went ugly fast. Four pops so clean they didn’t seem like violence. Four bodies that folded with choreographed surprise, the fountain’s lacework catching flecks of human in a glitter the sun turned obscene. Cheers died into a panicked moan that crawled through the crowd and became a scream.

Marco dragged the body behind the woodpile like it weighed nothing. Inside the cabin, a single lamp glowed in the living room. The second guard was slumped on the couch, boots on the coffee table, snoring over a half-eaten sandwich. Marco put one suppressed round of bullets through his temple. It happened so fast, the body didn’t even twitch.

The ceramic didn't meet resistance; it slid into the soft tissue with a sickening, wet shuck. The man didn't scream. He simply exhaled a final, rattling breath of blood and slumped against me, his weight a crushing, hot burden. I pushed him away, my hands slick with a warmth that made my stomach churn, but the fire in my blood was too hot for revulsion. "Zara!" Luciano roared. He was pinned behind the obsidian ruins, exchanging fire with the remaining three Pacifiers. One of them was flanking him, moving through the "History" section with a combat knife drawn.

The man shook his head and spat blood on the ground again. "I don't think he remembers anything " Paco commented. "Look! He was drugged too" Paco added pointing at the blue veins at his elbow. Zayn took out a stick of cigar from his pockets he lit one and puffed out the smoke running his hands through his hair like her normally did. He put the stick on the mouth and watched the man puffed out the smoke . One thing was certain the man was going to die he couldn't necessarily survive the drugs and beatings he had gotten .

Who knew the real routes versus the fake ones we used as bait. Marco had brought me fresh coffee an hour ago and left without saying much. He knew when I was in one of these moods. I pulled up the security footage from the night of the gym ambush. Watched it twice. Then a third time. There it was. One of our own junior guys, Paolo, on the perimeter. He should have been on the north side. Instead he was nowhere near his post for twelve minutes. Long enough to make a call. Long enough to tip someone off.

It separates the VIP area from the main clubbing area below. Comfortable pine seating booths are situated alongside the glass wall, and we’re seated at the one in the corner — designated for my brothers. And us. Right now, the glass is fully transparent, and my eyes sweep over the writhing mass of bodies below, searching for the stage like I’m keyed up and vibrating from the inside out. Tonight there’s an extra band member. Damion. Yes — turns out racing death machines isn’t his only talent. He can sing too. I know that. Heard him sing before. But suddenly it feels different. More intimate.

Chance said, leaning over the table at the Luna Noir Lounge. The triplets and Cante Russo stared at him. Cante was on his third espresso, while the brothers' drinks sat untouched, the ice melting into watery rings on the dark green countertop. “You’re talking about body doubles?” Nickie asked, his thick brows knitting together. “Explain.” “Look who you’re talking to, old man,” Matteo snapped, gesturing to his identical brothers. “We’re the kings of lookalikes. What’s your point?”

"Lacey didn't have to send you. I was doing fine on my own." She allowed Paxton to guide her into the van where the others were waiting. Brett and Vito had their windows cracked, guns out of sight, watching the crowd. "We were just passing by. Here." He gestured at the seat Silas had vacated. That was when he saw the rust red marks on the side of Coco's tank top as she adjusted whatever the hell she was holding. It looked like an armored basketball. The bus lumbered forward, following the silver motorcycle zipping ahead.