Scar had been king of the South Side once, commanding a crew of a hundred strong. Had loyal lieutenants and sergeants who watched his back. Dirty money stacked to the ceiling, men and women on corners running powders and pills he bought by the crate. And he’d broken or eliminated his enemies with the ease of stepping on a cockroach.
Until he went too far defending his reputation and got caught standing over three bodies with a smoking TEC-9 in his hand.
The judge gave him three life sentences without the possibility of freedom ever again.
The three years Gage was sentenced for his crime as an accessory, had been two years, three hundred sixty-four days too long.
He’d done three months before the Ravens intervened, hijacked his life, and changed his fate.
He wasn’t surprised when he failed their tests.
He wasn’t a gang leader—he hadn’t even been a member—despite being labeled as one in the penal system. It was his ignorance that’d landed him in prison, not bravado.
He wasn’t street smart or raised by a gang like Scar. He’d only been coddled and protected by one that ruled the other side of town, but never officially allowed in.
No matter what the Ravens injected into his veins, he wasn’t the monster they tried to turn him into. So when he didn’t meet their expectations, he was no longer of use.
The director said he wouldn’t keep things that didn’t work.
But Scar, on the other hand, was a mastermind, and his plan had gotten them out of there.
Now here he was, terrified, clueless, and in the dark.
Something crinkled. Scar was chewing, smacking, and Gage’s irritation flared again as his stomach growled.
Of course he didn’t get anything for me.
He was startled when a small object hit his lap.
He groped at the rectangular item with rounded edges and cool glass that flipped open. He squeezed the sides, and it lit up, the light attempting to bleed through the layers of his ruined eyes.
It was a cell phone.
He angled it away and opened his mouth to snarl before he closed it again.
“We’re in Bumfuck, North Carolina. There’s a twenty-four-hour gas station a couple miles up the road, and a town I assume will wake up soon. Also, I’d hurry to make a call and ditch the phone before it’s reported stolen.”
“How do you know we’re in North Carolina?” he asked.
His suspicion of every word Scar said was automatic.
“License plates.” He moved, his shoes scuffing on dirt. “A billboard in a cornfield the size of three football fields said, ‘Tyrel County Revival.’ You can call someone to come get you. I’m out.”
Gage’s chest tightened. “Where the hell are you going?”
“Home.”
He laughed, harsh and humorless. “Seriously? You’re still a fugitive, in case you forgot about the life sentences you were serving.”
“No ones looking for a dead man,” Scar droned. “One of the doctors from that fucked-up lab said there was a story on the news about my transport van exploding.”
Gage pfft’d. “And you believed him?”
“Look, it’s what he fuckin’ said, okay?” Scar’s tone said he didn’t give a damn if Gg3w believed him or not. “And even if it is a lie, I’m still going home.”
“It’s suicide to go back to Chicago,” he said. “Your crew will think you’re a rat, or worse, an informant. Nobody is sentenced to life and reappears on the streets five years later.”
“My crew knows me. It’ll be a celebration.”
