I followed behind him with my hands folded across my stomach. “Honestly, Love, I don’t care what they did and didn’t call you about. Please end all this shit!”
Love nodded, and I watched him walk out the front door and pull outta the driveway as I prayed to God to bring my man back home to me.
Chapter 22
End Games
Idid the dash across town to the barbershop faster than I want to admit. But when I walked in, my niggas were ready.
“That nigga called my girl! Threatening her life! I want that nigga found tonight! I don’t give a fuck how long it takes!” I stated, not letting them even ask what happened.
They looked at me, nodding their heads, knowing I meant what I said.
All my niggas started loading their guns with the extended clips, and Sammy stopped us.
See, my nigga Sammy wasn’t just a barber. Back when I ran the streets, Sammy was a gun dealer, and that nigga still dabbles in that shit here and there.
“I got some shit for y’all,” Sammy said, walking to the back of his store. We followed him, and he opened the door to this back room, turned on the lights, and we were met with a room full of guns of all sizes.
We all walked in, looking around.
“Everything new and unmarked,” Sammy added.
The niggas acted like it was Christmas, picking out guns, matching them with high beams and extended clips.
I grabbed the ARP and held it in my hands, feeling the weight.
“You gonna need this,” Sammy said to me, grabbing something off one shelf and bringing it over to me. “It’s a net bag to catch the bullet shells,” he said, looking around. “All you niggas grab one.”
After I got my shit together, I looked around. My bullies were ready to eat.
“We are not going home until that nigga is dead!” I repeated.
They all nodded at me, cocking their guns, and we walked outta the shop, loading into two trucks.
Keith was driving one truck. I was in the passenger seat. My nigga Ricky, driving the other truck, pulled up beside us.
“The YN’s said they saw a nigga that looked like him around South Side.”
I nodded. “Let’s go then.”
We took a drive to the South Side. I sat back in the smoke while my niggas told me where their people spotted him.
The only issue was that I wasn’t seeing him.
We went by a few motels they saw him at, and I knew he stayed out before—he wasn’t there.
Every time we pulled into a parking lot, I expected to see that nigga or a car with outta-state tags, but instead it was the same result.
Nothing.
I sat in the passenger seat getting irritated by the second, not because I couldn’t find him, but because I knew that nigga was close. I could feel him.
Islah was texting me, asking me if I was okay. I had to ignore her. We kept riding around, niggas kept calling. It was either some bullshit, or when the niggas were in town before.
I rubbed my face and looked out the window. The longer this shit went on, the more I thought about having to go back home to Islah and tell her that we couldn’t find him.
That shit was getting to me more than anything else.
