Harlem stayed parked on Overbrook Avenue in the Wynnefield section of Philly. He watched the house carefully for two days straight and observed the single female occupant coming and going. Her Benz truck was parked in the driveway. Harlem wanted to make sure nothing was a setup and that the kill went smoothly. He couldn’t afford any mistakes.
He wore all black and his loaded, silenced gun rested beside him on the passenger seat, ready for action. He watched the unobservant residents of the street who had walked past him for forty-eight hours without noticing anything amiss.
Tonight, I’ll go in and fuck the bitch up, he said to himself.
It was midnight when Harlem decided to make his move. The block was quiet and the traffic was light. The area felt still. The only sounds he heard were cars driving by in the distance. The house was dark, so Harlem assumed that his victim was asleep. He stepped out of his ride, the gun concealed underneath his jacket. He strode toward the house quietly, keeping an eye for any unwanted attention or observers.
He quickly walked to the backyard and when he reached the back door, he pulled on a pair of latex gloves and skillfully picked the lock. He’d cut the main source to the alarm outside with tools and made sure there wouldn’t be any police coming around to interrupt his business. Once inside, he closed the door behind him and removed his gun.
The house was dark and Harlem carefully proceeded, making sure not to bump into anything and awaken Mrs. Toma. He used a pen light and browsed through the place carefully. He knew that he was in the right house when he saw pictures of YB and his mother.
He slowly crept up the stairs, looking around, and reached the main bedroom door. Everything was motionlessness around him and the dark gave him comfort. The bedroom door was ajar and Harlem slowly peered inside to see Mrs. Toma asleep.
Harlem stared at the woman as she slept on her side, facing the window. He had the gun gripped in his hand and watched YB’s mother sleep for a short moment, admiring her form in the darkened room.
Her digital clock read 12:13 am in bright red numbers.
Harlem stood outside her bedroom door for ten minutes. At 12:23 am, he reentered the bedroom and tugged at the sheets, waking Monica.
“What the fuck?” she cried out, startled by the man in her bedroom. She sat up, wearing a white night shirt.
“We can make this quick or we can make this painful. Your son, where is he?” Harlem asked, with the gun aimed at her head.
“What? Get the fuck out my bedroom! Is you fuckin’ crazy!” she screamed.
Harlem shook his head. “Wrong answer.”
He fired a shot that missed her head by mere inches, striking the wall behind her.
“Next time, it goes into your skull. Now, your son, where is he?” he asked again.
Monica was shaken and frozen with fear. She stared at Harlem, knowing that he meant business. She clutched the bed sheets tightly and said, “I haven’t spoken to my son in months.”
“Bitch, don’t fuckin’ lie to me! Where the fuck is your son?” Harlem shouted.
Monica was quiet. She refused to give up her only child. She was old and he was still young and finally getting his life in order. She was scared, but she was willing to sacrifice her own life for her beloved son.
“Bitch, you need to speak up. Where is he?”
“Fuck you!” she yelled.
Harlem was somewhat taken aback by her boldness. He smiled and admired that boldness in her. “You got balls, bitch. You love your son so much that you’re willing to die for him tonight?”
“You’ll kill me anyway. I know your kind. I grew up around muthafuckas like you, ruthless and having no respect for human life. You should have known my husband Smoke—” Her hand slowly moved underneath her pillow to where she kept her .22.
“Bitch, you don’t fuckin’ know me! I ain’t nuthin’ like these niggas on the streets. I’m a different breed,” Harlem stated.
“You niggas are all alike! Mindless and stupid and your time with death will soon come, like all the others,” she said.
She felt the .22 in her hand and carefully gripped it. She placed her finger on the trigger and waited for the right moment to strike. She never broke eye contact with Harlem.
Harlem was getting fed up with the talk. He came there for answers, not to be lectured about his life and
the demons he dealt with. He stepped closer to her.
“I’ve been patient wit’ you, bitch, but I’m gonna ask you one more time: Where is your fuckin’ son?”
“Go to hell!” she screamed. In one swift motion, she pulled out the gun and fired a shot at Harlem, striking him in the shoulder.