King Von fell to the ground after being shot. The gunmen quickly opened the car door; evidently, they hadn't eliminated the real target yet.
Click-clack—At the same moment the Chevrolet door opened, the bodyguards inside the limousine fired back.
"Sht!" The killers panicked and raised their arms to shield their faces from the bullets.
Both sides exchanged fire. The whole process took only a few seconds but was extremely chaotic.
The Chevrolet was riddled with bullet holes. Seeing that they couldn't gain an advantage in firepower, the leading ngga in the passenger seat shouted at the top of his lungs, "Quick! Let's get out of here!"
Bang bang bang—The Chevrolet started up. Jorge exited the driver's seat and frantically poured bullets at the retreating rear of the car.
Sparks flew as bullets chipped away at the car body.
"Can you hold on, kid?" Jorge pulled out a short knife and skillfully cut the scarf into three pieces.
He wrapped them around Von's thigh and abdomen, the wounds bleeding most profusely.
The black fabric was dyed a dark purple in two or three seconds.
Calling 911 was meaningless at this point. Von's injuries made it impossible for him to survive for even a minute.
His lips trembled as he tried to say something, but the bullet piercing his left lung made it difficult for him to make a sound.
Leon quickly understood what the other party meant.
Although he had never felt death at such a close distance, based on his experience watching American dramas, dying people usually have important things to say.
"Is there anything else you want to say, man? Whatever it is, I will remember it." Leon sat beside Von, holding his shoulder.
At this moment, Von's eyes were bloodshot, his pupils dilated, and a sticky mass of snot mixed with blood sprayed from his nostrils.
He was exhaling but making no sound.
"What did you say?" Leon leaned his ear close, trying desperately to hear his last wish.
Revenge on enemies, arrangements for family and brothers, the child in SZA's belly...
Whatever the request, it was worth fulfilling.
Leon never expected this ngga to actually fulfill the promise he made casually—"I'm willing to do anything for you!"
"Fk..."
This was the last word Von said before he breathed his last.
After spitting out his last words, he went completely limp like a deflated ball.
The soul left the body, and the flesh could no longer support itself.
Urgent sirens sounded not far away. The paparazzi squatting around the Staples Center were excited to the point of madness.
The scene of the fierce gunfight just now was completely captured by cameras.
They thought it would be another boring night with no harvest, but unexpectedly they caught a big fish—the champion of The Rap, a well-known rapper was publicly shot dead on the street after the Grammy Awards ceremony!
This event could even overshadow the heat of Adele taking six Grammy trophies!
"Get lost!"
"Do you annoying flies want to die?!"
Although Jorge and the security guards tried their best to stop the reporters from taking pictures, there were simply too many cameras.
Dozens of cameras aimed at the blood-covered body, as lively as the filming site of the American drama Person of Interest.
The words Von often said when he was alive came true again—nggas mixing in the streets will eventually die on the street like dogs without dignity.
Seven minutes later, four police cars marked with the Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD) logo arrived at the scene.
The leading middle-aged officer first directed the police officers to put up a cordon, then walked to Leon's side and whispered, "Sir... the ambulance will be here soon. Can you talk to us?"
Leon's mind was a tangled mess; he had no mood to pay attention to the police at all.
"Sir... please cooperate. We just want to figure out what exactly happened..."
Just as Leon's thoughts were in chaos, the voice of the abyss that hadn't appeared for a long time rang in his mind:
[Shameless Entry: Betrayer has been weakened. Continuous weakening of the same entry will result in permanent deletion.]
[Inspiration refresh range expanded.]
[Don't look back, scum. Never look back...]
Expanding the refresh range sounded like a good thing, meaning inspiration refresh would no longer be limited to music or movies.
But thinking about it, it was another matter. There had been instances of refreshing Spanish songs before.
This was like deck pollution in Texas Hold'em, causing one to never get the hand they wanted.
At this moment, Leon had no mind to think about these things.
He rubbed his eyes; his head was swollen and painful. He lit a cigarette and said to the police, "Give me some time..."
Due to the large number of witnesses to this shooting incident, coupled with considering Leon's political influence, the inquiry didn't last long.
Except for the process of the tragedy, he hardly explained anything to the police, including speculation about the murderer's identity.
Although the answer was almost naked in his heart—Duane Davis!
This street thug nearing fifty successfully replicated the famous scene of shooting Tupac in 1996, shooting King Von, the leading figure of new-era gangsta music, to death in a hail of bullets.
Leon couldn't say these words out loud.
Whether it was the FBI or the LAPD.
Leaving aside their pursuit efficiency, they might have the ability to put Duane in prison, but with California's complex death penalty approval procedures combined with Jay-Z's money power, there was no hope of sending Duane into the execution chamber.
If he doesn't go to hell, it can't be called revenge.
"Sir, you can leave after chatting briefly with us. We will do our best to apprehend the gunman! We will contact your lawyer at any time regarding the progress of the case." The police officer in charge of the case organized the transcript in hand, sweat dripping continuously from his forehead.
The nationally known talent show champion, the singer of the Billboard top ten work Panda, was shot dead on the street after the Grammy Awards. The pressure on the LAPD facing such a major case could be imagined.
Just now, the LAPD chief's office also received a call from the New York Mayor's office. Bloomberg's assistant put enough pressure on the police on behalf of the Mayor.
At 2 AM, Leon left the LAPD surrounded by a crowd of reporters.
Flashlights turned the pitch-black night into day.
He adjusted his lapel and walked quickly down the steps with his head down.
"Mr. Leon! The LAPD just confirmed the news of King Von's death! Many people speculate that this is related to Diddy in prison. Can you talk about your views?"
"It is said that the gunman's real target was you. Someone filmed that after King Von fell to the ground, they still wanted to get out of the car and continue the pursuit!"
"Do you think the gunman was hired? Diddy? Migos? Lil Wayne? Or Jay-Z?"
"Will you take retaliatory actions against the enemy?"
Reporters scrambled up the steps like children eager to get gifts from Santa Claus.
Leon remained silent throughout, not even interested in humiliating them.
He dived into a Cadillac Escalade parked on the side of the street.
"My heart almost stopped just now!" Taylor in the back seat kept stroking her chest, soothing her emotions. "Thank God I can still see you. The atrocity that happened tonight is crazy enough to make one's hair stand on end."
"I'm fine, honey. I'm very tired now. Let me have some quiet, okay?" Leon rubbed his drooping eyelids. "Let the driver take me to the airport."
Taylor opened her mouth wanting to say something more, but seeing his exhausted look, she chose silence.
Although she hadn't spoken many words to Von, his appearance couldn't help surfacing in her mind.
That young ngga who jumped up and down around Leon all day, with a mouth full of slang and profanity, would never appear again.
"Everything will pass. Nothing can destroy you, little lion." Her nose soured, and she nestled in Leon's arms like a docile big cat.
"It won't pass..." Leon tilted his head and fell into a light sleep on the way to the airport.
At eleven o'clock the next day, Brooklyn, New York.
After flying all night, Leon went directly to the office without resting for a minute.
The desk was full of newspapers, and the front pages were all occupied by last night's shooting—"Bloody Grammys, Adele Sweeps 6 Awards, Street Jesus's Chief Disciple King Von Dies on the Street."
Phil, who was always noisy, was surprisingly quiet today, drinking whiskey by himself.
Cup after cup, his face swollen and red.
He muttered in a low voice from time to time, "Poor ngga... God really knows how to joke!"
After a morning of fermentation, social media was overwhelmed by discussions about the shooting.
Tens of thousands of fans flooded Leon's social account homepage with crazy comments:
[R.I.P Von, the streets will always circulate your story.]
[King Von interpreted what true Drill is with his life! This is the essential difference between him and those Fake Gangstas!]
Besides rows of neat R.I.P.s, there were more voices from onlookers inciting Leon to revenge—the murderer must pay the price!
Regarding the discussion of the person behind the scenes, the comment section was noisy:
[The gunman must have been sent by Diddy! As long as that guy doesn't go to see God, the matter between him and Leon is not over.]
[Fk bro, did you damage your brain? Diddy is enjoying imprisonment at the same level as terrorists. I guess Jay-Z did it!]
Opinions on the identity of the boss behind the scenes varied, but the identity of the gunman almost all pointed to Duane.
At least dozens of people claimed to have witnessed Duane in Los Angeles within the week before the crime.
Bang—The office door was pushed open. Lil Durk, wearing a black hoodie, walked in quickly with his head down.
The death of his good homie King Von hit him hard. The two had squeezed into the same cheap public housing to do rap since Chicago.
Making money together, sleeping with girls together, acting tough together when in trouble.
"Boss, do something, right now!"
"Give me the names of those gunmen. I will kill every one of their family members! Whether in a wheelchair or in swaddling clothes!"
"Fk, I will burn their houses down!"
Lil Durk was extremely agitated, his voice hoarse to the point of losing speech when emotional.
"Calm down, ngga." Leon twirled his pen, no expression on his face.
"Calm down? Boss, what are you talking about?!"
"What else? Von definitely doesn't want to reunite with you right now. Taking advantage of the high heat now, writing a few more diss tracks would be more useful."
Expecting this young ngga whose hands had never been stained with blood to deal with the seasoned Duane was just indulging the other party to send himself to death.
Leave professional matters to professional people.
It's fine for rappers to talk trash on social media, but expecting them to fight with real knives and guns? Few have true courage.
"You ask me to calm down at a time like this? Man... are you still the Street Jesus I know?" Lil Durk pointed at his own nose, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Phil chimed in, "Leon is right. We don't have the upper hand in public opinion. Chris Brown and Lil Wayne are mocking Von's death on Twitter. Releasing two songs to fight back now is what you should do."
"Shut up!"
After saying this, Lil Durk broke down directly, shouting indiscriminately at everyone in the office: "Dollars! You white devils only have dollars in your heads! I should have known long ago that you bastards only treat me and Von as agricultural tools for producing music!"
The disrespectful tone made the atmosphere in the room three degrees colder. Obviously, this ngga was dazzled by hatred. Leon wasn't angry because of the other party's attitude; after all, these two stuck together like gay lovers all day, and the affection between them exceeded blood brothers.
He left the other party a moment to calm down, then lowered his voice and said word by word: "Don't hate your enemy; it will make you lose judgment..."
Lil Durk panted heavily, and his breathing gradually stabilized after two minutes.
Realizing he said something wrong, he buried his head very low, daring not look directly into Leon's eyes. "Damn, I actually said those words... I'm very sorry, Boss. You know Von was like my own brother..."
"You can leave."
Leon waved his hand, too lazy to listen to this ngga continue to be sensational. Emotion has no effect on revenge; sometimes it only has a counterproductive effect.
As soon as Durk left, Leon flipped through the documents and talked about the record business. "Kendrick will come to New York in a week to help Cardi complete the recording of the last few works of the new album. Wiz Khalifa will serve as the producer."
"The album release time is scheduled two months before Little A's new album release. Don't mess this up. The significance of the debut album for Cardi is huge."
Von's body hadn't been transported back to his hometown in Chicago yet, but Leon talked about work as if nothing had happened.
Even Phil, who always detested street disputes, couldn't help cursing Leon in his heart. This was simply the most cold-blooded bastard he had ever seen!
After everyone left, Leon took out his phone and locked onto the Saint's name from the address book.
The shrewd Robinson knew what Leon would say long ago and spoke first, "I'm very sorry to hear the news of Von's death. That kid's courage is admirable..."
His words were interrupted by Leon at the beginning. "Listen, Saint, if you want to say condolences or something, forget it. I won't waste time mourning the dead. Those guys who are still alive must pay the price."
"Do whatever you want to do."
Robinson was ambiguous, neither supporting nor opposing, his attitude unclear.
"You have to help me find Duane." Leon said, "Not just Duane, but also the other two nggas involved... no matter which corner of the earth they are hiding in!"
"This..."
Seeing the other party still hesitating, Leon continued to pressure, "Duane was hiding in Inglewood before the action. That's where you made your fortune; you created crack there. You must help me with this favor..."
A series of words sounded straightforward, but tied Robinson firmly with moral kidnapping—Duane appeared on your turf and wasn't caught; you bear some responsibility for the shooting!
"Fk." The Saint rarely cursed. "You are making it difficult for me, Bro. This is a special period."
He was more sober than any other black gang leader. Even if he made more than ten million dollars by investing in movies, if he didn't go legit, he could never enjoy his wealth with peace of mind.
Wiping his ass clean with banknotes was the choice of a smart person. Running for Los Angeles City Council was his only obsession at the moment.
Getting involved in an entertainment industry shooting case that the whole US was paying attention to at this time was not a wise choice.
Leon snorted twice, playing with the poker cards at hand calmly.
He knew clearly what the other party wanted and had prepared a reason that couldn't be refused long ago.
"I know you are running for city councilor and don't want to provoke any trouble now."
"Think about it, man. You are a legendary figure on the streets. It's impossible for the city council not to know what you have done. Would they be willing to sit in the same conference room with a criminal to discuss proposals?"
"Maybe you want to do something good for Compton, but I advise you to wake up. Don't live in a movie."
"The story of a villain putting down the butcher's knife and being praised as a good person won't happen here, at least not to a ngga."
A set of sharp-tongued output mixed with threats made Robinson angry for a while, so angry he wanted to smash his phone.
When he calmed down, he couldn't find any loopholes in this rhetoric—even if he donated all the proceeds from his criminal career to a children's charity foundation, the city council wouldn't allow a drug dealer temporarily at large to have a seat.
Robinson sighed, his words full of helplessness. "You're right, Bro. The mistake is that I'm a damn ngga."
"No, listen! You are not completely without a chance..." Leon saw that the timing was ripe and took the initiative into his own hands. "What if I mobilize resources in the entertainment industry to help you campaign? Mayor Bloomberg, Senator Charlie, they are all my friends."
"Think about it, Saint. This is your only chance to get straight outta Compton."