Honor Road by Jason Ross (best non fiction books of all time TXT) 📕

The cop shook his head as though Willie was a disappointing teenager caught smoking weed behind shop class. “Those supplies are needed for the war effort. You and your Nubian warriors are burning them up, partying like it’s nineteen ninety-nine.”

“Oh, dawg. You going waaaay back with your racist smack and your music references. You’re like the un-cool cop on Starsky and Hutch. I’m gonna let it pass because I’m only half black myself. If I was full black, I might have to knock out a few of those pearly whites that make yo mama proud.” Truth was, Willie didn’t give a shit about racism. It didn’t get under his skin. He knew racism when he saw it, and he’d seen plenty, but he wasn’t compelled to correct ignorance. They could just keep on keepin’ on being ignorant motherfuckers for all he cared.

The cop shifted on his feet, and in that moment, Willie knew everything he needed to know about the two-hundred and sixty pound man. He knew he could do anything he wanted with him.

When a man got set to fight, he either went heavy on his feet or he went light. This guy planted his feet like an oak tree, and that meant he wasn’t within a country mile of Willie’s fighting class. Reflexively, Willie was already light on the balls of his feet, his knees flexed, his hips fluid and ready to dip and dodge. If Officer TrunkDick took a swipe at him, Willie would drop the gun and have some fun. He’d allow a couple haymakers from the cop, duck around them, do a little dance. He’d bounce around to the big guy’s right—the cop already telegraphed that he was a righty—and then he’d fire off a Willie Lloyd Special. Not that it was all that special; just a three punch combo that ended with a lightning jab to the throat. In ninety-nine-point-nine percent of street fights, the jab to the throat was the spunk-taker, rage-shaker, and friend-maker. Plus it had the added advantage of not jacking up his hand. After ten thousand hours in the boxing ring—in Philly as a kid—street fighting was like cheating to Willie. There were no rules, and the other guy almost never had more than a few fights under his belt. Willie had hundreds. After a fast-as-a-blink combo with the jab to the throat, all but the most skilled boxers would be at Willie’s tender mercy, and he could help them up off their knees, offer a few soothing words, slap them on the back while they tried to breathe and establish brotherly relations.

Nothing made Willie happier than dominating a man, and then offering him the hand of fellowship. It was where the two sides of Willie Lloyd met: the vicious street thug and the Warrior for Christ. He never felt as at-home as when he was knocking the shit out of a dude then apologizing after.

But not today. There were too many guns around. There were more cops behind his favorite burrito joint, and there were Panther brothers watching them from behind the Harbor Freight. Either group could punch a hole in Willie, standing in the middle of the street, if things got violent.

So Willie soothed the angry cop. “Settle down, Hoss. You don’t want to do what you’re thinking about doin’. It won’t end like you think it’s gonna end.” Willie said the words with a confidence born of taking a thousand punches and delivering at least that many in return. Apparently, the cop heard it as intended and his feet un-rooted themselves from the asphalt.

“What do you mean when you say war effort?” Willie asked.

“We’re taking the fight to the Mexican cartel in Flagstaff. We’re filling a semi trailer with supplies and meeting up with the resistance north of here. They’ve enslaved the population of Flagstaff, and once they get their footing, they’ll enslave all of us too. That probably doesn’t matter to you, though. I bet you’re on the bean-slinger payroll.”

“Oh, I see what you did there.” Willie clicked his tongue and saluted. “You pulled a double racist slur—that takes talent. Your momma must’ve taught you well. So you figure all the mud bloods are working together, because we’re all criminals, and we all don’t give a shit about slavery, so long as we’re not the slaves. That’s some high level intellect at work, Dog. They teach you that strategical thinking in community college, or did you come by it watching CSI?”

“So you’re asking me to believe you’re not with the drug dealers?”

“We’re not cartel. Would we be barricaded in a Ranch Market eating cornflakes for dinner if we were cartel?”

The cop snorted.

Willie’s mind churned. He’d heard rumors about the cartel wintering in Flagstaff, but this was the first he’d heard of a coordinated defense mounted by American patriots. Truth was, his group was running out of options. The markets would run out of food in a couple weeks, give or take. Every new market, distribution center or restaurant they’d probed recently had been ransacked or was occupied by another gang. It’d been ten weeks since the stock market crash and Willie could see dark at the end of the tunnel. He had a lot of mouths to feed, and the city was nearly scavenged out. He needed a longer-term solution.

“So are you going to let us into the market or not?” The cop stabbed a thick hand toward the front door of the Ranch.

“Naw. That ain’t going to happen. Our families are in there,” Willie said. “Tell me where the fight against the cartel is going down and we’ll think about it, but we definitely ain’t fighting under no cops. I need to know what you boys got planned and we’ll do what we’re gonna do. Tell me where and when we meet up.”

“I’m not telling you where. You’d sell us out to the cartel for a dime bag and a reach around.”

Willie sighed. Fifty-fifty the cop was manipulating him—filling him full of bullshit