4
The motorcycle engine cuts off beneath me, vibrations fading into the night air as I roll to a stop behind Rowan’s black SUV. Muffled rap music bleeds from a nearby apartment window, competing with the distant wail of sirens.
My boots crunch on broken glass from the shattered streetlight when I dismount, the sound too loud in the midnight quiet of this forgotten corner of Brickwell. Boards cover the bottom windows of the brick buildings, and the corner stores all guard their registers behind bulletproof glass.
The neighborhood pulses with memories. After I got out of juvie, Micah and I lived three blocks over in a studio apartment. Black mold crept up the walls,there were roaches in the kitchen, and it took us a year to scrape together enough money to leave.
I take off my helmet and jacket, stowing both in my saddlebag. In just my long-sleeved black shirt, I head for the SUV.
At my approach, Rowan steps out from behind the wheel, and the door closes with a soft click. Two more figures emerge from the back, Luca and Orien, their faces half-hidden in darkness.
“Right on time.” Rowan circles to the trunk, his shoes silent on the pavement. “Target’s on the second floor. Apartment 2D.”
I join them at the rear of the vehicle. Rowan pops the trunk with a key fob, revealing a neat array of tools organized in padded compartments. My fingers find a black balaclava, the fabric soft and worn from use.
“Two dealers.” Rowan hands Luca a pair of thin latex gloves. “They’ve been setting up shop half a block from Westside Elementary. Selling to kids.” He passes identical gloves to me. “They got two warnings and ignored both.”
The latex stretches over my skin and snaps into place at my wrists. Orien reaches past me for a Glock, checking the magazine before tucking it into hiswaistband. I pull the balaclava over my head, the world narrowing to the view through two eyeholes.
“No guns if we can avoid it,” Rowan cautions. “They’ll make cleanup a pain in the ass.”
I lift out a baseball bat, the familiar weapon settling into my hand like an extension of my arm.
“Luca, you’re on lookout and wheels.” Rowan distributes earpieces. “Orien handles cleanup. Saint and I deliver the message.” His teeth flash white in the darkness. “Clear?”
We all give an affirmative. No questions necessary.
Graffiti crawls up the sides of the five-story walkup. The front door hangs crooked on broken hinges, the lock busted years ago. Inside, the hallway reeks of urine and burnt spice, the walls stained yellow from decades of cigarette smoke.
The stairs creak under our feet as we climb to the second floor. A baby cries behind one door. A television blares behind another. No one peers out to investigate our footsteps.
In Brickwell, curiosity gets people killed.
Apartment 2D sits at the end of the hall. Bass thumps through the thin walls, which will make our lives easier. Laughing male voices rise and fall inside, unaware of the hell about to rain down on them.
Rowan positions himself to the right of the door, I take the left, and Orien hangs back, bag of cleaning supplies ready.
I lift a hand, fingers counting down.
Three…
Two…
One.
Rowan’s boot connects with the door below the lock. Wood splinters, the door crashes inward, and we pour through the opening.
The apartment opens into a narrow living room. Two men leap to their feet from a threadbare couch. A coffee table next to them holds scales, bags of white powder, and stacks of cash. The television in the corner plays a basketball game, the announcer’s voice rising in excitement over a slam dunk.
The first dealer lunges for a gun on the table. My bat whistles through the air, connecting with his wrist. Bone crunches, and his high-pitched, animal-like scream fills the air.
The second man barrels toward me. His shoulder catches me in the chest, driving me back against the wall. Picture frames rattle. Glass breaks. His fist grazes my jaw in a flash of pain that fails to incapacitate.
My knee comes up between us, finding the soft spot below his ribs. Air whooshes from his lungs. Itwist, reversing our positions, and pin him with my forearm across his throat. His eyes bulge, pupils dilated from his own product.
Behind me, Rowan grapples with the first dealer. Bodies thud into furniture. A lamp topples. One of them grunts in pain.
The man under my arm claws at my face, his fingernails catching on the balaclava. I shift, and the bat finds the side of his head with a wet crack. His body goes slack, and I release him to slide down the wall.
