The shot exploded through the room. His body jerked and the chair scraped hard against the concrete as he screamed into the tape. Dark, wet blood spread fast under his jeans.
He tried to suck air through his nose, and his chest heaved like it might explode.
Saint grinned. “You gonna remember that every time the weather change. Little Kalen gon’ be in high school and your shit still gon’ hurt.”
I moved my aim to the other leg. His eyes widened. He tried to kick, but the tape held him to the chair.
“This one’s for the internet,” I said, and squeezed.
Then there was another explosion and another muffled scream. His head dropped forward. Spit and snot soaked the tape. His body trembled so hard the whole chair vibrated.
I tucked the gun away and stepped in close so he could see my face through the blur of his tears. “You feel that? That’s mercy. Every step you take limpin’ out of this city, you gon’ remember Monáe, Kalen, and the Cartiers you said wouldn’t do shit.”
His eyes rolled in pain, but he nodded as much as he could.
Saint peeled the tape halfway off his mouth so he could wheeze. “Say ‘thank you’.”
“Th-thank you,” he choked.
“I better never hear your name again. If I do, we not stopping at your legs,” I threatened.
Again, he was nodding feverishly. I turned away from him as I told Saint, “Let’s roll.”
Our security team would take Monáe’s baby daddy to the Cartel doc and get him patched up.
As Saint followed me out of the basement, I rolled my shoulders, already feeling the switch flip in my head. Basement Reek was fading away and public Reek was returning.
Upstairs, the machines were loud enough to muffle noise from the basement. Kids ran between baskets while their mamas folded clothes. A few dudes were in there too, doing their own laundry. Nobody looked twice at us.
Saint pushed through the glass door and the wind cut through my jeans.
“Man, fuck, this weather so disrespectful,” Saint fussed.
As I laughed, my breath turned into smoke. “Nigga, it’s January. It’s always disrespectful.”
We dap’d up quick, and I headed toward my truck. I climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and let the heat blast my hands while I pulled out of the parking space.
My phone rang through the speakers.
It was Prodigy, one of my young homies. He was moving weight with his cousins, Wise and Vega. They called themselves The Street Kings. They’d been making noise for months and building a name fast.
“Talk to me,” I answered, easing onto the street.
“Reek, I need you to holla at the Cartiers for us.”
“For what?”
“We need a new plug. We tryin’ to get under y’all. Street Kings need the Cartiers as our distributors.”
“What’s wrong with your current connect?”
Prodigy blew out a breath. “He movin’ sloppy. He got pinched last week. He out on bond and still talking too much. Plus, he shortin’ the bags, trying to make his loss back on us. And the shortin’ ain’t even clean. He cuttin’ it wrong. Customers complaining, money slowing down, and now his block hot.”
That was a good enough reason. Heat and greed would kill a pipeline every time. “You know what it cost to level up with us.”
“I know.”
“You sure?” I stressed. “Cartiers don’t do ‘a little bit.’ If they give you a line, you gotta move major weight consistently. Minimum is ten bricks to even be worth the conversation. And that’s just to start. Y’all three deep. That means y’all should be doing more than that.”
