Jules leaned back against the door, eyes half-lidded, reminiscin with Juste like time hadn't split them wide open. Talkin 'bout when they was bad as hell kids, stealin bikes, fightin grown men, runnin from mama with switches and belts.
Shit Sounded normal. But it wasn't. Not with the way Jules' jaw kept tightenin. Not with how Juste's hand never strayed far from his waistband. Not with the way my finger stayed close to the trigger, even while laughin. That's how you knew a man crossed the point of no return, when the jokes didn't soften shit.
I saw a Blue Oldsmobile. Creepin slow around the back of the building. Headlights cut. Engine idling rough. It rolled into the far corner and parked crooked, like the driver ain't give a fuck how it looked.
I nodded once. That was him. We all moved at the same time, doors opening quiet, shoes hittin gravel soft. We ducked low and split around the opposite side of the car, shadows eatin us up. No words. No rushin. Just intent. Juste leaned close to me, voice barely breath. "Don't squeeze that bitch until I tell you to."
I didn't answer, Because Nash stepped out. Tall. Confident. That same smug walk like the world owed him space. He adjusted his jacket, keys dangling from his fingers, eyes already scanning but not enough.
I slipped out behind him, silent as a thought. Closed the distance in two steps. And cracked his ass across the side of the head with the butt of my gun. Clean and Hard. Lights out. He folded like his bones forgot what they was for, hittin the ground with a dull thud that made my teeth clench. Jules sucked his teeth. "Goddamn, Noles ." Juste shook his head. "I just told you—"
"He good," I said, already crouchin, checkin his pulse like this was just another Tuesday. "That nigga gon wake up." I dragged him by the collar, his head bouncin once against the bumper before Jules grabbed the other side. Nash groaned low, body twitchin. Pierre snorted behind me. "He just knocked that nigga lights out. We sure he gon wake up?"
I laughed under my breath, cold. "That bitch ass nigga gon wake up," I waved him off. "Ain't no easy sleep comin for him tonight." We hauled him to the back of the truck, muscles tight, breath controlled. We tossed him in like luggage, unimportant and replaceable, Jules slammed the door shut hard enough to make the whole truck shudder.
In the shuffle, Juste stripped Nash's phone off him and slid into the driver's seat. He pulled up the last location, studied the route, then put the truck in gear without sayin a word. About ten minutes into the drive, Nash groaned behind us.
Low.
Ragged.
Alive.
Jules turned slow in his seat, already got the gun drawn, barrel steady like it'd always belonged in his hand. His eyes locked on Nash's face in the dim light. "All of a sudden yo bitch ass aint got shit to say when this Glock in your face." Jules said calm. Too calm. "All that mouth you had before? Where that at ?."Nash swallowed. Jules leaned in just enough. "Bitch, you know you dead. I see it on you. That's why you ain't sayin shit. To be honest with you? I ain't got nothin to say either." He exhaled through his nose. "Eye for an eye. You took one life. I'm takin three."
Silence swallowed the truck. I shifted, gun resting easy in my palm "Here's how this gon go," I told Nash. "You knock. Somebody answer. No extra shit. Just do exactly what you told." The road turned narrow, no streetlights, just trees leaning in like witnesses. When the house came into view, it was small. Too small to hide in. Too small to escape from.
Juste parked and we stepped out. He shoved Nash forward, and I stayed right behind him, gun pressed firm between his shoulders. "Walk bitch," I growled. He did. Each step sounded louder than the last. Nash knocked. The sound barely landed before the door creaked open on its own.
That shit wasn't right. I stiffened instantly, spine going tight, senses flaring. I didn't like doors that opened themselves. Didn't trust silence that felt like it was listening. "What the fuck you got goin' on?" I muttered, shoving the barrel harder into the back of his head, forcing him inside.
The moment we crossed the threshold, the temperature dropped. Not no regular cold either, this was that old folks inside-the-bone chill. The kind that make your body react before your mind catch up. Curtains lifted on their own, snapping softly in a breeze that shouldn't exist. No windows open. No AC hum.Just wind moving like it had a destination. I felt it crawl up my neck.
The living room came into view, and that's when Nash made a sound I hadn't heard before. It was small and broke.
Mozele and Filesha were laid out flat on they backs in the middle of the floor. Eyes wide. Mouths parted just enough to tell the story. Bodies stiff like they'd been frozen in whatever last thought crossed they minds, stiff dead.
Nash stumbled forward and dropped down beside them, hands shaking as he reached out, then pulled back like the sight burned him. Silent tears slid down his face, splashing onto the floor. He stayed crouched there, rocking slightly, shaking his head over and over like denial might rewind time. I didn't feel shit for him.
My finger stayed tight on the trigger, pulse slow, steady, patient. I was beggin him, prayin, he'd try something stupid. Anger sat calm in me. Cold. Clean. Not wild like before. This was different. "What the fuck is that?" Pierre said quietly, stepping closer to the bodies.
I followed his line of sight. White powder dusted the floor around them, thicker near their heads, smudged into shapes. Curves. Slashes. Crossed lines that didn't look random the longer I stared. My chest tightened. That wasn't coke. That wasn't drywall dust. That was chalk etchin out symbols and words.
Shit I'd seen too many times standin behind Ayida while she prayed but this wasn't hers. Her work was clean. Intentional. Rooted. This was frantic. Sloppy. Desperate. Like somebody tried to bargain last minute and lost. A pressure settled in my temples. So they wasn't just runnin' from us. Something else gothere first. "Whatever you do," I said low, not taking my eyes off the markings, "don't fuck with that shit."
The house felt heavier once I said it, like it heard me acknowledge it. Juste shifted beside me. "We need to burn this bitch. Jules?" Jules leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes hollow but steady. He looked tired in a way sleep couldn’t fix. "I'm straight," he said. "Karma worked quick enough for me. Let brudda get even."
Juste turned toward me. "Noles. Squeeze that bitch." I didn't hesitate. Two shots cracked the room open. Nash dropped forward like his strings got cut, blood blooming fast, loud in the quiet. His body hit the floor hard, twitching once before stillness claimed him too. The house sighed. I swear to God it did. Like it had been waiting on that. I lowered the gun, breathing even, chest tight not from guilt. From the pressure. From the feeling that something unseen had just checked a box.
"Ju get the gas," Juste said. "Let's blaze this bitch and get the fuck on." I tucked the Glock back in my waistband, eyes still scanning the room. The symbols on the floor looked duller now. Faded. Like whatever power was there was already satisfied
We stepped back outside, the night air warm but wrong after that cold. Jules doused the house in gas, moving slow, deliberate. He flicked the lighter with his thumb, pulled the unfinished blunt from behind his ear, took a few steady pulls like he was grounding himself. Then he dropped it. Flames climbed fast, greedy, licking up the siding, windows popping as the fire caught hold. Heat rolled over us, sharp and bright.
I didn't look away. Fire reflected in my eyes, and for a second, I thought about Ayida. About how she always said firedon't just destroy, it cleans. About how she warned me once that blood answers blood, but spirit answers louder.
My chest tightened again with resolve. Whatever touched this house, I thought, had to be protectin her.
The flames roared higher, swallowing the doorway whole.
