I scoffed bitterly, then shoved the door open. When I stepped out, I slammed it so hard the car rocked. The sedan pulled off before I even made it back to my own vehicle.
“Fucking bitch.”
I walked to my car and climbed in with my hands shaking. I gripped the steering wheel, feeling the walls closing in on me. But I would never be at ease as long as the Feds had me cornered.
Politics are expensive, and my father needed money, he needed people in his corner, and he needed problems handled. Without my father knowing, I helped keep the machine greased because I wanted to be useful and the one he trusted when he couldn’t trust anybody else.
But the Feds caught up with me a few months ago. They had emails where I approved spending that didn’t match what my firm reported. They had transfers that went out as “vendor payments,” but the vendors were shells. They had invoices with my LLC on them that looked clean, but the work behind them either never happened or wasn’t what the paperwork claimed. I billed “community outreach,” “crisis communications,” and “consulting,” then used those line items to move money where it wasn’t supposed to go. I pushed payments to people you couldn’t pay on the books. I routed money through friendly contractors so it came back around without anybody writing it down as a kickback. I signed off on expenses that were really political favors and influence buys, not PR.
My father had no idea. I was just one of the people funding his political machine.
When the Feds found out, I told them I could give them something bigger. I had overheard my father talking about working with a cartel before the “Cartel condos” story ever hit the internet. So, I offered the Feds the Cartiers in exchange for a deal.
To get in, I leaked to the media that Project 83 was funded by dirty money. I fed activists and community groups just enough to spark outrage about “Cartel condos,” because I knew my father would ask me to fix the blowback. I figured if I could get inside their circle, I could bring the Feds what they wanted in exchange for what I needed. So, I got close to the circle the only way I could.
I started the car and sat there for a second, staring through the windshield, wondering how I could make Reek open up to me. Reek was a vault. The only thing he was interested in was pussy and doing what he had to do for the cameras to ensure that that development got built. He wouldn’t open up to me about his personal life, especially his business with the Cartiers.
But I had to ensure that he did. I had to say and do whatever it took to get evidence I could hand over to the Feds and put the Cartiers in prison instead of me.
TARIQ “REEK” HORTON
A couple of hours later, Kai finally guaranteed Rico’s location. Kai gave us a specific location and a window of time where Rico and the Crowns’ top men would be in the same place at the same time, and he put his life on it.
Me, Saint, and a few Cartier soldiers pulled up to an industrial pocket that looked official from the outside. There was a guard booth, and a few work trucks were parked like somebody was on a night shift. It was a good cover if you didn’t know what you were looking at, but we knew.
Saint had rode with me. Big A was in the vehicle behind us with more soldiers. Nobody was laughing or talking shit. This wasn’t one of them nights where you got to enjoy the work. This was the kind of night where you had to make sure you killed niggas without ending up dead yourself.
I pulled in and cut the lights before I cut the engine. We rolled the last few feet on and parked where the cameras couldn’t get a clean look. I looked over at Saint. He already had his strap in his hand and that look on his face that meant he was ready for blood.
Big A’s truck eased in behind us. Doors opened but didn’t slam. Boots hit the ground in sync. We moved around the vehicles like we’d done it a hundred times. Nobody stood in the open. Nobody rushed the front. We took our lanes, checked the angles, and walked up in the shadows.
The guard booth sat near the gate with two of the Crown posted. One leaned against the side like he was bored. The other had his phone out like he was just scrolling. They were relaxed because they thought nobody knew this spot existed.
We closed the distance.
The first Crown lookout died before he could finish turning his head. The second one tried to raise his weapon and got dropped right next to the booth. A third man popped out from behind a truck like he thought he was about to be a hero. He got put down, though.
That was when the building woke up. A door on the side flew open and a Crown soldier stepped out already shooting. The sound hit the yard and bounced off the metal and concrete. Another man appeared behind him. Then another.
It still wasn’t enough. Big A’s people hit the yard from the opposite side, and everything turned violent fast. Crown soldiers tried to get behind cover. They tried to control angles. They tried to pull back and regroup. We didn’t give them time, though.
I moved up with Saint on my right, and every step forward took a piece of their confidence with it. Crown men fell on the gravel, near the doorways, and while trying to drag their wounded homies back inside.
Inside the building, it got worse. The Crown had more men inside than the outside suggested. The first Crown soldier I saw inside came around a corner too fast. His eyes went wide when he realized who we were. I put him down before he got his gun level. He hit the floor hard and didn’t move again.
Another one rushed from deeper inside, yelling something to somebody behind him. Big A’s soldier caught him mid-step and he fell forward.
It was chaos after that. Doors flew open down the corridor. Boots pounded across the concrete as Crown soldiers rushed into position. Men shouted names and warnings, trying to find their people and figure out where we were coming from. You could hear them trying to coordinate in real time, calling out angles and orders like they still had control of what was happening.
The Cartiers broke that coordination every time it started to form. A Crown soldier tried to rush Saint from the side with a blade, but Saint caught his wrist, slammed him into the wall, and took the fight out of him in seconds.
Deeper inside, we found Rico. The back section of the building was set up for a meeting with a long table, multiple chairs, and opened laptops.
Rico stood when we entered. He had two high-level men close to him, and more soldiers stationed behind them like a wall.
Rico stared at us like he couldn’t believe we made it to him. His mouth opened, but he didn’t get to say what he wanted to say.
Saint fired first and stepped into the space like the building was his now. The room turned into a slaughterhouse. Crown soldiers tried to return fire and got cut down where they stood. One dove behind the table and still caught bullets through the wood. Another tried to sprint toward a side exit and ran into Big A’s people moving in from the back.
