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  Yet, she had the audacity to keep fighting, to believe that everything was going to be all right. Whatever was happening, whatever was causing all this pain throughout her body, she was going to pull through. She visualized her recovery in her mind. Netta always believed in the power of positive thought. She feared that if she thought otherwise, then she was doomed.

  Netta was in the fight of her life, for her life. Yet, she was accustomed to fighting in one form or another. She had been fighting all her life. Life had always been a constant struggle. Yet, some how, some way, Netta had always emerged the victor. She was a survivor in every sense of the word.

  Try as she might to stay awake, her puffed up eyebrows were becoming extremely heavy. Closing them was too easy. Sleep was slowly overpowering her. Netta desperately needed a release from the pain and slipping into the darkness provided just that.

  Once again she began experiencing flashbacks of her life and loved ones. Random images began to flash before her mind's eye. With vivid detail she began to see the most important people in her life, whom had shown her a lot of love at one time or another, people like Ms. Tina, Mimi, even her estranged deceased mother Renee.

  These were people near and dear to her heart. People without whom she wouldn’t be the person she was today. Netta felt they helped shape her, the good and the bad experiences. So she was thankful to have had them in her life in one form or another.

  Then there was her old neighborhood in Baltimore, which she cherished so much. It was a source of pride for her; she always seemed to puff out her chest when she told people she was from Murphy Homes. Yes, thee Murphy Homes, a bleak housing projects on Baltimore’s West Side. She loved the crime-ridden place to death, however, what Netta witnessed and experienced while she lived there had harden her. It prepared her for the cold world outside her project apartment door. So she'd always be forever grateful to have been raised there.

  The immense pain snapped Netta right back into reality. She wasn’t back at any of her old haunts, surrounded by loved ones. She was alone in the back of an ambulance, struggling to make sense of it all.

  Just then the ambulance came to a halt. Finally, it had reached its destination. The sudden stop had roused Netta out of her state. She could clearly hear a loud bleeping noise sounded as the ambulance reversed into the emergency room parking bay.

  Suddenly, the doors were flung wide open and paramedics rushed Netta’s stretcher out of the ambulance. The emergency response workers looked on as they whisked Netta away. They both were thankful to have made it to the hospital with their patient still alive.

  Quickly, Netta was thrust into a chaotic environment of the emergency room where a team of doctors, nurses and other medical professionals rushed to take possession of the severely injured patient. The ambulance driver had radioed ahead and requested that the trauma unit be on standby. Now the burden of saving this patient’s life rested squarely on their shoulders.

  In haste they rushed Netta’s badly mangled body down the long, winding corridors and into the operating room. The sterile smell of the hospital invaded Netta’s nostrils as the nurses prepared her for surgery. By now she was wide awake, yet she was unable to move. She heard and saw all the preparation the trauma unit team was making for her surgery.

  Lying on the operating table, she began to see the build up to this moment, the cause and effect that her decisions and actions had had on her life.

  For a long time the street life had been her savior, now suddenly it had become her downfall. Netta’s actions had consequences and these were the consequences of her treacherous acts. The street life had cost her dearly.

  Suddenly she was filled with deep regret, knowing that this entire situation was all of her own making. Her injuries might as well have been self-inflicted. All the wrongdoing pointed back to her. That thought alone made Netta begin to question herself. Why had she done some of the things she had done? Was money that important? Why had she even crossed Black? At the moment she had more questions than answers. So she forced herself to think about something else. Knowing she was at fault was too great of a burden for her to bear.

  Her mind turned to thoughts of New York Tone, her new friend, and the future she’d thought she’d have with him. Netta thought about Tone for good reason, he was the last face that she saw before slipping in and out of consciousness. He also had discovered her body, so essentially, if she pulled through, he would be one of the many people responsible for saving her life. She’d be eternally thankful to him for that.

  He was the last thing on her mind, not surgery, not life or death. Just New York Tone.

  Netta’s oxygen mask was replaced by anesthesia as the nurses continued to prepare her for surgery. Now modern medicine and the grace of God would dictate the outcome of her surgery. From this point on, one way or another, Netta wouldn’t feel a thing. Her ill-fated life was now in God’s hands.

  2

  Wearing a black oversized hoodie pulled low over his head to conceal his facial features, Tone navigated New York City's Port Authority building in search of his bus boarding gate. His oversized apparel had done little to mask his muscular physique. Standing 6’2 with a low cut, Tone struck an imposing figure, the kind that commanded respect wherever he went. However, now was not the time to stand out. It was the time to blend in with the hundreds of other travelers and commuters. Traveling alone, he walked with a calm demeanor that contradicted his inner nervousness. Adrenaline ran through Tone’s veins as he strolled through the busy bus terminal, past dozens of travelers at various gates on their way to unknown destinations.

  Scanning their unfamiliar faces, Tone tried to decipher who might be law enforcement or who was a legitimate traveler. In New York City one could never be too sure who was who. Tone was street smart enough to know things were never what they appeared to be. The streets had trained him to be suspicious of everything.

  Tone continued to wander around in search of his boarding gate. One minute he felt he was going in the right direction and the next minute he felt he wasn’t. He may have been lost, but his temporary confusion wasn’t enough to make him stop someone and ask for directions. Despite the fact that he was pressed for time, Tone was more inclined to find his own way, just like a typical New Yorker.

  The fact that he was traveling light, carrying only a few meager possessions in a small duffle bag, some underwear, socks, and a few white T-shirts, he was inclined to believe that he could break out in a full sprint if need be. That didn’t mean that he wanted to. Tone didn’t want to draw attention to himself like that.

  Besides the duffle bag, Tone clung tightly to the black knapsack slung over his shoulder. The contents of that bag meant more to him than anything in the world right now. It contained a few ounces of cocaine and a nine-millimeter handgun, his currency and insurance policy. These two things were Tone’s passport to a new life. Everything else that he forgot or left behind in his haste to flee New York City could be replaced.

  He was starting over, far from home. However, he had a plan. In his mind all he had to do was execute the plan and everything else would fall in place. Tone knew he had the right amount of heart and craziness inside to make it happen. What he didn’t know was what he would be facing once he arrived at his destination. He knew he had to familiarize himself with this new city, the different culture and the street vernacular. Once he adapted to those things, Tone was sure he would be fine. The streets were pretty much the same wherever you went, he reasoned. Real always recognizes real, and Tone was a real one. He knew how to handle himself.

  Sweat trickled down his face as Tone stopped and examined his boarding ticket then looked up and scanned his surroundings. Instantly he realized he was nowhere near the gate he was suppose to be at. Panic began to set in so he swallowed his pride and asked for directions.

  “Excuse me, Mister, could you tell me which way is gate 59?” he asked politely.

  “You going in the wrong direction young man, it’s back dataway. Down the esc
alator,” the terminal employee told him.

  “Is it far?” Tone wondered. “I gotta 6:15 bus to catch.”

  “Nah, it’s not too far,” the man said, staring at his watch. “But you better put a pep in ya step if you plan on making that bus.”

  “Thanks,” Tone hollered as he reversed his direction.

  “You’re welcome,” the man replied. “Have a safe trip.”

  “Damn, this fuckin’ bus station was bigger than I thought,” Tone mused.

  With his ticket in hand Tone broke out into a light jog. Every so often he glanced down at the bus ticket to make sure he was on track. At this point he was sure that his bus was probably already beginning to board. He wasn’t sure how long they would wait before leaving. He was cutting it close by arriving so late.

  Timing was a fact that he couldn’t control. Everything was so spur of the moment. Yet Tone knew he couldn't afford to miss this bus. He couldn't afford to stay in New York City another minute. His freedom was at stake.

  With the heat on, Tone was heading south until things died down. That was the plan, lay low. If he like it he’d stay, if not he’d leave. When the time was right, he would return back to New York, back to his beloved Edenwald housing project.

  Luckily Tone had a girlfriend named Sonya who attended Morgan State University. Once word reached her about the incident involving him, she begged Tone to come stay with her in her off-campus apartment. She feared for his safety, probably more so than Tone did.

  At first, Tone wasn’t sold on the idea of leaving New York, but once the police raided his mother’s apartment, kicking in her door looking for him, it didn’t take much convincing thereafter. There was a lot of speculation surrounding him. The streets were talking, there was a high possibility someone might be snitching on him. Knowing that, his hood wasn’t the place for him to be. He never thought he would be leaving New York, especially under these circumstances.

  New York City was end all, be all to him. It was all that he had ever known and all that he ever wanted to know. To Tone there was no other world outside his city. New York was the capital of the world, to him. It saddened him, having to leave his place of birth. But he had no choice. It was either stay and go to jail, or leave and be free.

  As he jogged toward his boarding gate, Tone glanced up at the large digital clock located just above a billboard. It read 6:12 pm. His bus was scheduled to depart at 6:15 pm. Quickly he broke out into a sprint, trying his best to remain discreet.

  Slightly winded, Tone arrived at the Peter Pan bus company terminal 59 just in time to board the bus with the last remaining passengers.

  “Ticket please,” the bus driver stated, standing just outside the bus entrance.

  Tone handed over his bus ticket and the bus driver punched a hole into it with a small silver hole puncher before handing it back to him.

  “Enjoy your trip, sir,” the bus driver commented.

  “Thanks,” Tone replied.

  To him, it was such a relief boarding the bus. It was more than a means of transportation, it was a route to a new life. It might as well have been a portal to a new dimension, especially with the New York City police department looking high and low for him. Just making it this far felt like an accomplishment to Tone. Leaving town, he felt like a great deal of his problems were solved, however temporary that may be.

  Tone eased passed the bus driver, up a short flight of steps, heading down the narrow aisle in search of a seat. It was a relief to him that the bus wasn’t jammed packed with passengers and he didn’t have to sit next to a stranger. He wouldn’t be too comfortable with someone sitting beside him for the entirety of the ride. The emptiness of the bus was a blessing, so finding a seat or a row by himself wasn’t difficult at all.

  Tone took a seat with no other passenger within his eyesight. There was no one sitting directly in front of him, behind him, or across from him. He needed a little privacy to do what he had to do, which was to remove the gun and the drugs from his knapsack and stash them for safekeeping. He looked around carefully before he quickly made his move. In an instant he stuffed the gun into his waistband and then he placed the drugs in his hoodie pouch and headed immediately for the bathroom to stash it in the garbage. In his mind, hindsight was 20/20. It was better to be safe than sorry. He already had a messed up legal situation looming. Tone didn’t need to compound that with additional gun and drug possession charges.

  Inside the cramped quarters of the bus bathroom, Tone quickly removed the gun and the drugs off his person, stashing them in the garbage then covering it with some trash. When that was done, he returned to his seat, placing his knapsack and his duffle bag in the overhead compartment like every other passenger on the bus.

  Next, Tone sat down and immediately removed his hoodie in an attempt to cool himself off. Even as he disrobed, revealing a plain white T-shirt, Tone could feel the deodorant running down his arms. He took his hoodie and wiped away light beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead. Tone felt sticky from the perspiration, but it was nothing a nice hot shower couldn’t solve once he arrived at his destination. For now, he’d just have to deal with it.

  Tone was still cooling off when a white man suddenly boarded his bus.

  “Excuse me, Sir,” the stranger suddenly called out.

  Although the stranger had grabbed his attention, Tone completely ignored the voice from the front of the bus. He assumed the male voice wasn’t referring to him. He couldn’t be.

  A number of passengers stared at the man; none of which acknowledged him at all.

  The man continued, “Hey, you….. You in the white t-shirt.”

  Tone cringed. He couldn’t ignore that physical description. The first thing that came to his mind was he was caught.

  Tone pointed at himself in disbelief, as if to say me?

  “Yes, you,” the white man reiterated. “Could you come here for a second?”

  Quickly Tone rose from his seat and began to approach the man with an air of confidence that belied his uneasiness.

  The closer he came toward the man, the better he was able to size him up. He took a long hard look at him. From his perspective, the man looked like a cop. Truth be told, most white men looked liked cops to kids from the hood. His clean-cut look, freshly shaven, broad shoulders with a navy blue New York Yankee baseball cap. It was the same kind that plain-clothes policemen in New York City loved to wear. He might as well have had the word cop written on his forehead as far as Tone was concerned. The man was giving him a bad vibe.

  At this point Tone’s mind was racing; the closer he got the faster Tone’s heart began to beat. He began scheming on ways to escape. He was just hoping the man would let him get off the bus before he tried to take him into custody. That way, at least he had as good a shot as any to escape. He’d take his chances in a foot race with a cop any day of the week.

  “Does this belong to you?” the man asked, holding up an identification card.

  Speechless, Tone didn’t know what to say. It was obvious that the photo on the identification was indeed him. There was no denying that. But what wasn’t so obvious was if the man knew that the identification was fake or not. It was a catch 22, Tone was damned if he did lie and maybe damned if he didn’t. Against his best judgment, Tone decided not to lie.

  “Yeah, that’s mine,” he admitted.

  “Here you go.” The man said, handing over his identification. “I saw you drop it as you ran for your bus. I figured you might need it, wherever you were headed.”

  “Yeah, thank you.” Tone replied. “I sure will.”

  Inwardly, Tone exhaled. It was a relief to know that the man wasn’t a cop. That he was simply a Good Samaritan, returning his lost identification.

  “Your welcome buddy,” the man spoke.

  Tone smiled as he received his identification card. This time he placed it firmly inside his front pants pocket; then he retreated back down the isle. He caught a few suspicious stares from a few nosey passengers. He didn’t
think too much of it as he returned to his seat.

  Quickly, Tone put that incident behind him. Now there was nothing to do but wait for the bus to depart and ponder whatever lay ahead of him in Baltimore.

  The Peter Pan bus sped down the long New Jersey Turnpike portion of Interstate 95. Like a child, Tone pressed his face against the dirt stained glass and took in the sights and sounds of the trip. The steady stream of traffic allowed passing vehicles to zip past the slow moving bus on either side. It didn’t take long for Tone to realize that the bus window provided no entertainment value whatsoever. Still, the trip was interesting to him just the same. Tone had never been this far south by himself. The farthest he had ever been was to Philadelphia as a child with his mother to visit family.

  The traveling experience was new to him. Eagerly he awaited his arrival in Baltimore. Tone knew his girlfriend would be at the bus station to pick him up. He looked forward to seeing her again. He hadn’t seen her since the summertime when she was on break from college. The thought of being with her on a daily basis, just like when they were in high school, made him happy. Yet their reunion wasn’t the sole purpose of the relocation. It might have been for Sonya, but it wasn’t for him. Tone wasn’t going to let anything get in his way of making a dollar. Not even his girlfriend.

  First and foremost, Tone was coming to Baltimore to make money. The gun and the drugs in his knapsack was proof of that. He had no intentions of cleaning up his act and staying out of trouble once he got to where he was going. On the contrary, it was business as usual.

  Have drugs, will travel, might as well have been his motto.

  Long before he even thought about coming to Baltimore, his girlfriend had tried to entice him to come down. She had mentioned to him on several occasions how much money was out there in the streets of Baltimore. She even put her male cousin, Stew who was from Baltimore, on the phone to try to convince Tone to come hustle down there. He didn’t listen then, but he was all ears now. Tone was going to see for himself just what the streets of Baltimore were hitting for. Was there really money out there? Or was it all a myth. He would soon find out.