BEFORE…
“Can we go to the skate park?” The thirteen-year-old boy balanced on his skateboard while his older brother paid for their sodas and two small bags of chips. The boy fidgeted with the keyrings on a rack next to the cash register.
“I told Mom we’d be right back,” his brother said. “She has an early shift, so we need to clean up the kitchen so she doesn’t have to do it before dinner.”
“Can’t we do it after we go to the skate park?” The boy lost interest in the keyrings and looked at his brother. “We don’t have to stay long. Just an hour? I want to try out my new skateboard.”
“You have tried it out.”
The boy gave his older brother an exasperated look. “In theapartment,” he said. “Not at the park.”
“Maybe tomorrow. Besides, it’s too late. It’ll be dark soon.”
“It’s notthatlate. It’s just a block away. We canwalkthere.”
“Tomorrow is Saturday, and Mom doesn’t have to work. We’ll go then.”
The boy groaned, but let it go. Unlike most kids his age, he rarely complained when his brother or their mom asked him to pitch in with chores. He seemed to get that money was tight—never threw tantrums in stores like his friends did when they couldn't get what they wanted. The skateboard had strained their budget, but the boy was a good kid and deserved a nice gift. The young man felt a twinge of guilt as he watched his little brother's shoulders slump. The board had been sitting in their apartment since his birthday last weekend, practically begging to be taken for a real ride.
“Tomorrow, I promise,” the young man assured. “First thing in the morning. We’ll spend all day at the park.”
The boy brightened. “Really? All day?” He stepped off the skateboard, tapped his foot on the end, popped the board upright, grabbed it, and stuffed it under his arm. He hadn’t gone anywhere without the skateboard since his birthday.
“Sure, why not?” The older boy finished paying the cashier, a middle-aged Korean woman with a friendly smile. He waved her off as she started bagging their stuff, handed his little brother his soda and chips, then grabbed his own. “Thanks,” he said, smiling at the woman. “Have a nice day.”
The Korean cashier replied – “You, too” – with a heavy Korean accent.
It was almost five o'clock when the brothers walked out of the convenience store, just a few blocks from their apartment. The late-afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cracked sidewalk as they headed toward the battered used car, parked at the curb near the corner. The boy immediately dropped the skateboard and hopped on, skillfully rolling forward as he popped open his soda.
Three young black men in oversized hoodies and low-slung jeans loitered at the corner, leaning against the graffiti-covered brick wall of the old Majestic Theater, its once-glamorous marquee now hanging at an angle, weathered posters still visible in the display cases that hadn't been updated since the place shut down years ago.
The boy suddenly dropped a foot to the ground, halting the skateboard, as they were almost to the car. “You forgot Mom’s coffee creamer.”
“Oh shit.” The young man shoved his soda and chips at his little brother. “Take these. I’ll be right back.” He handed him thecar keys. “Go ahead and unlock the car.” He loped back into the store and headed straight for the refrigerated section. His eyes skimmed the rows of colorful plastic bottles, and he snatched his mother's favorite—the small Amaretto-flavored creamer—before heading for the register.
His mom didn't allow herself many luxuries—their father hadtaughther that she didn’t deserve them—but she savored that first sip of coffee with her flavored creamer every morning, closing her eyes briefly as the sweet nuttiness cut through the bitter brew. The young man had once caught her standing at the kitchen counter in her faded blue uniform, the rising sun glinting off her prematurely silver-streaked hair, that momentary escape written across her tired face. Since then, he'd made sure they never ran out, even when the electricity bill ran high, or they ate ramen three nights in a row. After years of double shifts and empty chairs at parent-teacher conferences where a supportive husband and father should have sat, she deserved at least this small pleasure.
“Forgot something,” he grinned sheepishly at the Korean woman. “Bad memory.”
The woman smiled and rang up the creamer. “Old age,” she said with a wink.
The young man chuckled. “Must be—”
The squeal of rubber on asphalt tore through the store as a black Camaro with tinted windows roared down the narrow street. Male voices erupted in alarm, then panic, from the direction of his car, followed by two deafening cracks that echoed between the buildings.Oh God. His heart seized in his chest. The creamer slipped from his fingers, hitting the linoleum with a dull thud as he lunged for the door, shoulder slamming into the metal push-bar and sending him stumbling into the fading sunlight.
His sneakers slapped the pavement as he bolted toward the car, then skidded to a halt, frozen mid-stride. Twenty feet away, the boy lay crumpled on the sun-warmed concrete, one arm twisted beneath him, the other flung outward like a broken doll. A dark crimson stain bloomed across his faded Avengers t-shirt. The skateboard lay upside down, wedged between the curb and the underside of his car.“No!”The cry tore from the young man’s throat as his legs finally responded. He crashed to his knees beside his brother, the impact sending jolts of pain up his thighs.
Frothy scarlet bubbles formed at the ragged hole in the boy’s chest with each shallow breath. The older boy’s hands trembled as he pressed them to the wound, warm blood seeping between his fingers and soaking the cuffs of his hoodie. “Help!” he screamed, his voice cracking as he whipped his head from side to side.“Somebody help us!”
Through the haze of panic, his vision sharpened on another body sprawled ten feet away—one of the young black men, his white sneakers now spattered with red, a dark puddle spreading beneath his motionless form.
The Camaro's red taillights bled into the shadows as it fishtailed around the corner onto a side street, its tires leaving twin streaks of scorched rubber on the asphalt. The engine's howl echoed between the brick buildings, gradually fading, leaving only the acrid stink of burnt rubber and gunpowder hanging in the late afternoon air like the rancid stench of death.
CHAPTER 1
The sight was so cute that Axel had to suppress a girlish giggle; the cowboy walking down the street, an ice cream cone in one hand and the other holding his fiancé’s hand. For the average couple, it was nothing special, even normal. Not for the badass “cowboy gangster” who could make even the toughest men tremble in their boots and wet themselves.
Axel licked his own ice cream—chocolate swirl with sprinkles—then smiled.
