“Koko.” City Boy walked over holding a black composition notebook, the kind kids used for school. “I found this in the ceiling. Looks like numbers, but I can't make sense of it.”
Booda glanced at the notebook when I took it from him.
Pages were filled with dates and figures, some crossed out, others circled in red. I stared at the handwriting, waiting for something to click, but nothing did. It was just ink on paper, as meaningless as a foreign language.
“You need me to tell you how to decode that, or you got it? I’m sure you don’t want everybody to know I’m the smart one.” He chuckled, and I rolled my eyes as I turned the page.
The format changed. Single letters paired with numbers, then more numbers, then locations abbreviated to two digits. My thumb traced the pattern as I remembered being at Booda’s apartment at three in the morning, the one on Mercer before he moved to the loft. We'd been sitting on his floor with Chinese food containers between us as he taught me his system. He said I needed to know how the money moved if I was going to be his partner in truth.
“The first letter is the supplier,” he'd said, tapping my knee with his pen. “The second number is the week. Everything after that is quantity and location. You got it?”
I'd gotten it. I'd gotten it so well I'd teased him for two weeks about his terrible handwriting.
The memory hit complete, and I almost dropped the notebook.
“You good?” Twan asked, and when I looked up, I found Booda watching me from the kitchen doorway.
I could tell by his expression that he knew I’d figured it out.
“This is a secondary ledger,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “It tracks re-ups and stash rotations. The circled entries are active locations.”
I flipped to the most recent page, fingers moving fast now, the code unlocking like a door I'd walked through a thousand times.
“He's got another house. Not on Miller, that's a decoy. Real spot is off Henderson, behind the old dry cleaner.”
City Boy stared at me. “How you know that?”
“I just know,” I replied, because there was no way I was explaining that Booda used to make me memorize this shit.
I closed the notebook and handed it back to him. “Take three cars. Leave now, before they know we have this. I'll send coordinates once we're moving.”
He nodded, turning to rally the others.
Booda waited until City Boy and the others had filtered out before crossing the living room toward me. He had that look on his face, the one that said he was about to say something I probably didn’t want to hear.
“You’re moving fast,” he said, stopping a few feet away.
“Fast is the only speed that matters right now,” I replied, moving toward the back bedroom where my people were loading duffel bags with product.
“That’s not what I meant.” His voice had that edge to it, the one that usually meant he was testing me. “I meant you’re remembering things. The ledger system, the safe houses, the way you move through operations like you never left. It’s all coming back.”
I paused at the bedroom doorway without turning around. He was right, and we both knew it. The memories weren’t just fragments anymore. They were solidifying into complete pictures, and with each one came the weight of who I used to be.
“Yeah,” I said finally, turning to face him. “They are.”
Booda stepped closer, and I could see the calculation behind his eyes. He was trying to read me, trying to figure out if getting my memories back would help me or hurt me.
That was Booda. He could never just let things be. He always had to be three steps ahead, always had to know the angle. That man would forever be protective of me.
“That’s good,” he said, but his tone suggested it was anything but simple. “I need you like you were before.”
“Before I got put in a coma?” I asked.
“Before you forgot what we built together.” He moved past me into the bedroom.
I watched him move past me, his shoulder brushing against mine. The move felt deliberate. Booda had always been territorial without making a scene about it unless somebody was stupid enough to disrespect him.
“What we built,” I repeated, the words tasting strange in my mouth. “You mean the operation.”
