Dying Like Dogs

“Perce!” he’s yelling. “Perce, I called Kettle to ask about the money. He didn’t answer so I called around to find him. Found out he ain’t called me cause he got shot!”

“Slow down, Philly!” I keep my voice low so the people in this parking lot can’t overhear me. “Kettle got shot? Who shot him? Is he okay, what happened?”

“He’s dead, Perce.” Philly seems only slightly calmer as he tells me this. “Him, Ducky and Big Pete. All fucking dead.”

“How in the fuck?” is all I can muster, my nerves not quite catching up to the news.

“Drive-by,” my lieutenant informs me. “Outside the liquor store in Doyle Heights, man.”

“Aw, shit!” I curse quietly. “Smoke Money, right?”

“Ain’t sure who shot ‘em,” Philly tells me. “From what I can get outta people, apparently it was some sort of Nissan sedan. Tinted windows. Whoever shot ‘em ditched the thing about half a mile from where they gunned our boys down. Stolen ride, the cops are saying.”

“No one got a good look at the shooters?” I can’t believe this bullshit.

“Nah, it happened real quick so it must’ve been planned out. Only thing we know is Kettle didn’t have none of that money on him. All of ‘em straight dead and none of ‘em had anything unusual with ‘em. Cops know they’re Kingfin so they figure this shit is gang-related, but can’t figure out a motive since as far as they know we ain’t feuding with anybody.”

This strikes me as strange. Kettle’s from Sunset Point, but he’s still Kingfin and Philly still pulls rank on him so I seriously doubt he’d pocket that cash or risk leaving it with anyone. The only conclusion that I can come to is that he must’ve had it stripped off his corpse. That’s pretty sick and it’s not real likely Smoke Money’s crew would do that kind of thing if this was a vendetta hit. I highly doubt that Smoke Money has any clue we shot ‘em up at Thunder Gate, anyhow. My intuition tells me this is pure Knucklehead bullshit and that money was real, not fake.

“Three of our men dead.” I let the statement hang in the air. “Money gone off Kettle. I guess that doesn’t leave a whole lot of guesswork for us now does it?”

“What you sayin’ Perce?”

“I’m telling you this is a Knucklehead hit.” I let my tone tell him how deadly serious I am. “They want us to continue business as usual and show up at Lanky Joe’s to get at least a partial payment. When we show up, they off us.”

“You fucking serious?” Philly’s got to be foaming at the mouth now. “You think they set this shit up just to knock us off and take Benton?”

“S’right, I do. This isn’t just about Seattle, Philly. It’s some sort of gig that interests their entire fucking organization. Why else would the Diamondknuckles be doing bitch work for some fucker from LA? Why else would they toss us decent chunks of change to keep us off their asses while they dowsed the park? This isn’t some minor thing they’re looking for. Whatever it is, it’s worth a lot to them or they wouldn’t risk provoking a war with us. However, what they’ve done calls for war. None of those boys deserved to die, especially not by ambush.”

“Holy fuck!” Philly hasn’t technically known full-scare war. Beef, yes, but not war. “We’re at war?”

“Gonna need MadBlack’s approval since it’s his Doyle Heights set, but that won’t be hard for me to get. This is gonna be a war those Knuckleheads are never gonna forget. I’m going straight to MadBlack’s to get his approval. You get some troops decked out and bring ‘em to Morton’s. Fast as you can.”

Morton’s is Morton & Son’s Scrap & Salvage, our secret weapon. Philly’s got some idea about it though we’ve rarely needed to use the place before now. It’s on our payroll and he’ll learn why once things get rolling.

“Got it, Boss,” he rushes his words. “Get ‘em to Morton’s quick as I can.”

“Good. See you there.”

I click my phone shut and enter the car, smiling at Lolinda. “I hate to do this, you know I do, but I’ve got some up and coming business to handle. I’ll swing you back to your place and we’ll re-schedule the walk on the pier if that’s alright with you.”

“Okay,” her smile flickers a little. I know she’s disappointed. “I understand. You do what you’ve got to do.”

“That’s right,” I tell her, “Don’t worry, though. We’ll get together again soon, I promise you.”

She doesn’t mind 2pac and right now that’s what I need, so we listen to The Don Killuminati: The 7 Day Theory during the trip back to her place. I make sure she has a fifty tucked down the back pocket of her jeans before I let her out of the car. She thinks I just felt her up.

Author’s Note: more tomorrow….

Hey, Jo, Where You Goin’ With That…

The sound of locks being undone comes right before the door swings open to reveal Philly aiming his .45 at us. “Who the fu– Oh, hey!”

“Goddamn, Philly!” My heart’s about to bash its way out through my ribcage because I fear being shot accidentally more than I do being gunned down by my enemies. “Put that shit away! Don’t you fools look out the window first?”

“Sorry, man,” He looks embarrassed, then calls back over his shoulder, “Hey, Tiff! Look who finally showed up!”

Tiff has evidently been waiting just around the corner because she flies out, nearly knocking Philly into the wall and seizes her brother up in a crushing embrace.

“Fuckin’ Christ, Tiff!” Hyena gasps. “I missed you, too, but shit!”

“Oh, Sam, I started to think I’d never see you again.” The make-up around her eyes is creating dark streaks down her face as it mixes with her tears. “Oh, god!”

She’s mouthing “thank you” to me over Sam’s shoulders as he struggles to end the hug that must be humiliating him to death. Next, I see a middle aged woman in jeans and a cream-colored sweater rushing out the door. She joins the hug.

“Samuel Clayton King!” she scolds him. “Don’t you ever worry your poor aunt like that again! Me and your sister though you’d been killed!”

“I’m fine!” Hyena’s trying to untangle himself from their arms and failing. “Perce bailed me out and nothing bad happened to me.”

“You!” Aunt Jolene glares at me with as much disgust as her tone conveys. “I know about you!”

“I did my best to protect him, ma’am.” I can be awfully calm and polite when I’m getting angry. “Came as quick as I could once I knew the young man was in trouble.”

“Oh, is that what you call making the morning headlines, now? Protecting him?” The whites of her eyes are flashing the way a dog’s will once it’s entered an attack frenzy. “An SUV shot full of bullets and bodies lying all over the street in front of the library?”

My jaw clenches involuntarily. “At least the boy is alive,” I say through gritted teeth.

“And scarred for life!” She’s shrieking now. “We’re going back to San Antonio where nigger thugs like you can’t–”

“Hey! Watch your fuckin’ mouth, puta!” Philly roars, stepping up behind her. “My friend risked his fucking life for Sam! You can’t talk to him that way!”

“Don’t you yell at her, you bastard!” Tiff screams, bursting into fresh tears.

Hyena breaks free of the women, shouting, “Hey! Everybody just chill the fuck out! I’m alive! I’m okay!”

This brings silence down on the group of us like a judge’s gavel. The boy’s eyes blaze with intensity, emotions rippling beneath his teenage face. Everyone’s looking at him, most of us unconsciously holding our breath. I’m not sure, but he’s got that look a person gets when they’re about to cry. I hope like hell that he doesn’t.

Instead he raises his shoulders, takes in a deep breath and announces, “I’m the one who brought all this drama down on my family. Not just my blood family, but my street family, too. It’s my fault things got this fucked up in the first place and I’m sorry for that, but y’all can’t be gettin’ at each other over something I did to myself. Perce ain’t responsible for me and neither are you, Tiff and Aunt Jolene. I never meant to drag my troubles into your home.”

“I wish you wouldn’t use such atrocious language, Sam,” his aunt chides, but she’s looking at him with more pride than anything else. “We aren’t angry with you, only worried. We know you just got mixed up with a bad crowd.” Her scowl touches first me, then Philly. “This is no kind of life for a smart young man like you.”

I’m half-tempted to tell the old bag off – she’s clearly baiting us – but I resist. Philly crosses his arms over his chest and does his best to pretend he’s interested in the cement he’s standing on. Sam simply nods and walks into the house. I’m not sure whether I’m welcome inside or not as I watch the women follow him inside, but Tiff motions for me to follow. So I do.

The interior of the apartment holds nothing unusual. Typical white walls, beige carpeting and furniture that’s clean, but has seen its better days. Dank and Ronnie-K sit on the floor in front of an older model television playing some football game on Sam’s Xbox. If this were MadBlack’s place or nearly anywhere else they’d be trash-talking each other like crazy, but right now they’re quietly absorbed in the action on-screen. The eerie quiet in here fails to comfort me, making me want to walk softly or not speak at all. Sam heads back to his bedroom, his sister following him while Aunt Jolene disappears into the kitchen. Philly and I plop down on the couch, exchanging ‘man this is fucked up’ glances.

Today’s newspaper is laying on the coffee table so I pick it up and sure enough, the shootout in front of the Thunder Gate Public Library made the front page. The headline trumpets ‘URBAN MASSACRE’ and the teaser text reads ‘Eight Dead in Brutal Street Gang Turf War’. I’m almost used to reading about situations I’ve been involved with in the papers by now, but it’s always amusing to see how a reporter will spin things to come up with a sensationalistic story. The lady who wrote this one gives a brief sketch of the facts before diving into comparisons between what happened in Thunder Gate and the situation in Southern California that’s been emerging since the arrival of ‘increasingly sadistic’ gangs from Mexico and Central America. According to this story there were no witnesses because the residents in the area were too afraid of being hit by stray bullets from the ‘endless barrage of gunfire’ to go anywhere near a window. The police claim they’ve got no leads on who gunned down the ‘members of a notorious Seattle-based drug ring known as Smoke Money Family’ but ‘investigators are searching for clues to help them track down whatever criminal organization committed this vicious and brazen slaying.’ Maybe that’s true, but I know from past experience that law enforcement tends to withhold information to keep suspects confident and relaxed so they can be taken down more easily.

“Would you boys care for anything to drink?” Aunt Jolene’s calling from the kitchen. “I’ve got soda or coffee.”

“I could use a soda!” Ronnie-K yells back.

“Me too!” Dank adds.

“Percy? Philly? Anything for you?” she asks as she hands the cans to those who requested them.

“No, thank you,” I tell her as Philly shakes his head, probably still a bit steamed from earlier.

Just then Hyena comes stalking back into the room, Tiff close at his heels. Judging from the set of his jaw I’d say his sister has already informed him that they plan to leave for Texas tonight.

“No fucking way!” Hyena snarls, not bothering to look back at her. “I’m not leaving the Brotherhood behind, especially not with what went down last night. I’m not gonna live my life running like a scared bitch.”

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Aunt Jolene’s employing a gratingly false tone of empathy. “But I’m afraid you don’t have a choice this time. I’m your legal guardian now and I’m not willing to bend on this. This whole ‘gangster’ life could get you killed and there’s no way I can live with knowing that I could’ve done something to save you and didn’t. You’ll make plenty of new friends in San Antonio where it’s safer.”

“I don’t like it either, Sam,” Tiff adds. “But I can’t even stand the idea of seeing my only brother in a wheelchair or a coffin.”

“Perce!” Hyena’s eyes are begging mine. “Tell these two that I can’t go! I’ve got obligations here, people to look out for and I can’t go running off like this!”

Oh, how I wish I were somewhere else. “They’re just looking out for you is all. Really, it ain’t any of my business.”

“I’m trying to do right by your parents, Sam,” Aunt Jolene’s wearing her best poor-me expression, playing the martyr here. “My sister, God bless her, would never have let things go this far, but I wanted to give you freedom.”

“No offense,” Philly surprises me by jumping in, “But you don’t ‘give’ a person freedom. Everyone’s got it, only thing is not all of us choose to live how we want.”

“You mean like uncivilized barbarians?” Aunt Jolene snaps at him. “Killing people, doing drugs, probably even raping people!”

“Hey, I ain’t no rapist!” Philly tenses, ready to spring up from the couch. “I don’t have to beg or plead to get laid, much less rape the woman!”

“You begged and pleaded plenty last night,” Tiff gives Philly a smug smile.

Philly’s “What the fuck?” and Aunt Jolene’s “Tiffany Ann!” both happen at the same time. The older woman’s face has gone from the pink shade of frustration to a darker crimson flush of anger. Tiffany herself looks a bit surprised at the reactions she’s evoked. I’m not too terribly surprised by any of this, it’s a typical inter-family spat. Mainly I’m hoping no one babbles to the police about my role in last night’s shootout. Not that they’d be able to prove anything, but I despise the hassle of even the clumsiest shakedown.

“I’m not going back to Texas,” Hyena’s states flatly. “Period.”

“Oh,” Aunt Jolene’s voice turns low and mean. “Yes, you are, the both of you! I’m taking you both out of this sinful city for good!”

“No,” Hyena shakes his dreadlocks. “You can’t force me to go.”

“Sam, please!” Tiff tries her calmest voice. “Please think of the people who love you. We can’t stand to see you in danger like this. Please?”

Aunt Jolene strides out of the room, apparently fed up with all of us. Hyena continues shaking his head at his sister, his stiff posture indicating that he’s prepared to stand his ground, but he says nothing more. Tiff’s face falls and tears well up again.

“Perce?” She looks to me for support. “Can’t you tell him how serious this is?”

I shrug. “Already have. Not my place to be making his decisions.”

“Sam, you have to!” She’s nearly sobbing. “We can’t stay here!”

Hyena’s voice holds steady. “I don’t have to do shi–”

“Out of my house!” Aunt Jolene appears from the back rooms, double-barreled shotgun raised to her shoulder. “Get out, ever one of ya!”

Author Notes: We still aren’t to the action part, yet…. it’s coming…

Smoke, Talk and Drive

I head to the den so I can get MadBlack’s viewing experience readied. He and Deep Kut chat with Sam while I set things up. By the time I’m ready to take Deep home they’re all getting along pretty well. Almost natural. Deep and I say our goodbyes and get into an ‘88 Oldsmobile Cutlass Classic that MadBlack keeps in the garage. It’s chromed up, lowered and painted a gorgeous shade of indigo. A choice ride with an expensive sound system. Deep Kut throws on some Ludacris for the ride over to Benton before I take him back to Dizzy’s studio for the night. Smooth sailing, set to some serious smoking of premium weed, courtesy of Kingfin supply. I can feel my adrenaline-tensed muscles relaxing under the good herb’s spell.

“Crazy shit Sam pulled back there, ain’t it?” Deep asks while it’s my turn to toke.

“Yes, indeed,” I can still talk with lungs full of smoke. “Damn near ended himself up in the city morgue instead of MadBlack’s. Brave little bastard, though, I gotta say.”

“You’re right,” Deep’s nodding thoughtfully to this song’s bass line. “To tell the truth, I felt pretty sure he’d end up dead, pulling a stunt like that. Seen alotta niggas fall tryin’ to stand tall.”

“Glad we changed cars before we got pulled over,” glancing over at him I read from his smile that he’s going to turn this situation into another song. “A shootout of that magnitude is going to end up on the front pages of the papers tomorrow morning. Smoke Money Family’s liable to hunt our asses down if that last dude they had standing recognized me as Kingfin. Hope Philly doesn’t end up fielding a second visit tonight – by SMF thugs.”

I take a few drags while I let Deep Kut unroll what’s in his head, “I ever tell you about my Pops? I was about Sam’s age when he got shot. He rolled with the Harborside Crips back in the day. Not after I was born, though. He quit the gang life cause my momma didn’t want us kids growing up that way. Thing is, you never really quit the streets. It’s like a magnet in your bloodstream. If you ain’t drawn to them, they’re drawn to you. Pops worked on the docks since that was all that would hire him. So he’d been doing hard labor making a way for our family, not messin’ with gangs at all. Then one day, on his way back home he’s waiting on a red light at an intersection. Some punk ass crossing the street jogs over to his window and sticks a gat in face. Carjacking.”

Funny I’ve never heard this story, even having known Deep so long like I have. He takes another toke before I smash the roach out in the car’s ashtray, reminding myself to dump it once we get to the park.

“So, Pops acts real cool,” he continues, his voice lower than I’m used to. “Another kid comes up on the other side, gun in hand, ready to back his partner and take Pops’ ride. What does my old man do? He reaches out quick, grabs the guy on the driver’s side’s gun and yanks his arm into the car so he can get control over the weapon. Well, that guy starts pullin’ the trigger all rapid-fire. Bullets go into the seat, the passenger-side door and then through the window while Pops and this little bitch are wrestling for the gun. Shot that goes through the window hits the other jacker, drops him dead on the pavement. Once Pops has the gun away from the one guy, he floors it out of there. Now he’s stuck with a gun that shot somebody and even though it’s got no prints on it, Pops wasn’t a man to take unneccessary risks. He drives over a bridge and tosses the gun into the Duwamish River. Next day, he and I are going down to the Circle K to get him a pack of smokes and this car rolls up alongside us, goin’ too slow. Window rolls down and Pops screams at me to get down. Shoves me to the sidewalk as the shotgun fires. Missed me, but it hit him. Died instantly, they told us. One shell, that’s all it took. See, the carjackers were Southtown Red Kats, Blood-affiliated. Jacker that lived told them about my Pops and they remembered he was Harborside Crips. The situation became a colors game. The jacker blamed the death of his homeboy on Pops and less than 24 hours later, us kids lost our old man. Streets get sick, don’t they Perce?”

“They fuckin’ do,” I nod, feeling sorry for Deep. “Harborside ever get even for that?”

“Nah, they didn’t give a shit. Said Monkeywrench, that’s what they called Pops, was dead to them already. None of ‘em even came to his funeral, man.”

“Fucked up,” I find myself a bit angry at hearing this. “Kingfins don’t operate that way. Unless you cross us, once you’re in we stick by you for life.”

“No shit, that’s the way it should be. I took it upon myself to settle the score. Made up a Molotov cocktail and tossed that fucker into a party they were having. Three of ‘em got to roast that night. I figure that’s even enough.”

I give a low whistle before saying, “Nasty way to die, but sounds like it suited the nature of their crime, blasting your Pops like that. Red Kats around any more?”

“Nope, they all either shifted allegiance, got busted or wound up dead. Doesn’t hurt my feelings, though. Nasty crew. Stupid violent and most ‘em were hopped up smokin’ rock all the time.”

Author’s Notes: Still playing catch up, next chapter goes live in a day or 2 until we get back on track!

Man of the House

“Smoke Money Family,” MadBlack’s talking to me, but he’s looking at Sam. “Those brothers Chinaman and Corvette?”

“Camaro, but yeah,” I instantly regret correcting the man. It’s too late to take it back. “That’s them. They’re pushing cheese at Louis Carver, the high school over there in Thunder Gate? Sam’s school. He and his boys roughed up a few of their dealers so they came after him for revenge.”

MadBlack’s leaning back against a wall, his blue silk robe exposing a bit more bare skin than I’m comfortable with. He likes these awkward silences and even though he’s still wearing his dark shades, I can tell he’s visually appraising Sam. He’s met Deep Kut before, but not Sam. Hopefully he likes him or he won’t be staying here tonight. I try to help Sam’s cause along.

“I don’t like that cheese bullshit,” MadBlack’s shaking his head. “Came outta Dallas, Texas. Nothin’ good ever came outta Texas.”

I’m hoping Sam doesn’t mention that he moved here from Texas. Luckily, he’s not doing anything more than letting his eyes roam around this kitchen. With black marble counter tops, state of the art appliances and expensive slate-gray floor tiles, it must appear pretty posh to him as a young buck who’s only ever lived in low-income housing.

“Bad news, for sure,” I agree. “Trashy dope made to make new junkies out of young folks who don’t know any better. Predatory. Sam’s crew only slangs ganja. Right, Sam?”

Sam nods, fidgeting with his pockets.

Deep Kut’s still working on those sandwiches when he turns to ask MadBlack, “Where y’all keep the mayonnaise?”

“Fuck mayonnaise,” MadBlack’s irritated by this seemingly unimportant intrusion to our conversation. “I ain’t French. I don’t eat that nasty shit. Miracle Whip’s in there. Mustard, too, but I don’t fuck with nasty mayonnaise.”

“It’s cool,” Deep Kut finishes up the sandwiches, handing one to each of us before approaching MadBlack. “You want a sandwich, too?”

“Nah,” he tosses his reply at Deep before refocusing on me, “How’s Benton Park doin’?”

I take a bite of my food to avoid wincing, “Good. I had Philly watching over it while I went to Dizzy’s. No problems.”

“Ain’t Philly in Thunder Gate?” this question comes out low like a roll of thunder before the clouds rip open.

I nod, chewing busily.

“So,” he let’s that word linger. “Who’s watching over it now, then?”

I swallow the dry sandwich hard, “I am.”

MadBlack crosses the floor, depositing his empty glass in the sink. “Don’t look like you’re watching it. Looks like you’re standing in my kitchen. Eating.”

I hate when he gets this way, means he needs sleep. “We got three cars full of our boys patrolling it right now. Figured I’d head on over soon as I updated you on the situation at Thunder Gate and found Sam a place to lay low for a while till this blows over.”

Kissing ass sucks, but sometimes it has to be done.

“You do that,” he’s aware of what I’m trying to get him to say so he decides to draw it out longer the way he likes to do. “Where’s the kid gonna stay?”

“Hoping he could stay the night here if that’s alright with you.”

“We can do that,” he’s watching Sam slowly eat the sandwich. “But get this numbskull outta my house before he empties my fridge.”

“Aw, man!” Deep knows he’s playing. “Why you gotta do me that way? You know I draw my musical inspiration from the way you handle business, man.”

“Don’t insult me like that,” MadBlack’s not serious, but anyone who didn’t know him wouldn’t be able to tell by his deadpan delivery. “Blamin’ that shit you write on me.”

Deep Kut laughs, shaking his head.

“Kid want a joint or something?” MadBlack’s watching Sam with the closest thing he has to an expression of concern. “Been through a lot, sounds like. Reefer’ll calm the nerves and build the appetite.”

Sam doesn’t seem to hear this so I ask him myself, “Hear that, Sam? MadBlack’s offering you some of the finest bud in this country. You up for a smoke-out?”

“Sure,” I worry Sam’s going to seem nonchalant towards MadBlack’s generosity, which is a bad idea. “Thanks, man.”

“It’s nothing,” MadBlack tells him, then says to me. “I feel like a movie. You got any suggestions?”

“Terminator 2,” Sam tells him. “If you got it.”

“Course I got it,” he sounds pleased. “Arnold motherfuckin’ Schwarzenegger! Damn fine choice.” He looks at me, “Load that up for me before you head out. Pack me a fat bowl, too.”

Author’s Notes: Late posting again, next post goes up tomorrow to speed things up. Will try to get back in sync soon!

Shellshocked & Shaken

A crack in the night tells me one of those SMF pieces of shit managed to survive. Not only that, but the fucker is shooting at us. The shot must’ve hit the Lincoln, but I don’t have time to fret over that. I swing the steering wheel hard around the next corner and we’re screeching off down 181st Avenue back towards MadBlack’s place. I could call Philly at this point to update him, but I’m more worried about getting Sam to a safe place before I go doing that. Besides, SMF may send more of their troops to Tiff’s aunt’s house. We’re also guaranteed to encounter incoming police cruisers if we don’t exit this area of town fast enough.

“My God,” Deep Kut’s lighting a cigarette with shaky hands despite sounding calm, “I thought for sure those fools were gonna ice our asses. Musta been what, a dozen of ‘em?”

“Eight, I think,” I’m craving a smoke myself right now. “Important thing is we bailed our boy Sam out and they didn’t hit a single one of us. Goddamn lucky for that, too. They fired off enough lead to more than wipe us out.”

“Hell yeah, boy,” Deep’s passing his cigs to Sam but Sam’s not really responding. “Motherfucking Kingfins are down for life! Here, take a smoke, Sam. Make you feel better, son.”

“Gimme one, too,” I don’t feel like fishing my pack out, “Light it for me.”

“Aight,” Deep does what I ask first, still watching Sam. “You gonna be okay, Sam?”

“I ain’t ever shot anyone before,” is all he can manage in a voice that sounds far away.

“Well you did tonight, son,” Deep says as he leans up to hand me my smoke. “Killed his ass, too.”

“He died?” Sam’s still staring at the back of the passenger seat, his face showing no expression, his eyes wide.

“Damn straight he died,” Deep holds the pack of cigarettes out towards him again. “Dead is the best condition for those who’d shoot at you. You did what you had to, son. No shame in it. Have a smoke, it’ll calm your nerves.”

I’m watching Sam pick out a cigarette with what seems to be great concentration.

“Sam,” I tell him between drags of my Camel, “The streets are like this. Deep’s right, you did good. Next time, though, I don’t wanna look over and see you walking towards ‘em. Never stand up in a situation like that. Look for cover. You gotta give your enemy a smaller target to shoot at.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam’s still staring at the cigarette he chose.

“S’alright, Sam,” I’m worried the boy might be too shaken to act normal if we get pulled over so I try to bring him out of the shock. “You’re just learning. Won’t be too long till you’ve got your shit down.”

“I got to call my sister,” he’s smoking the cigarette like it’s a joint. “She’s worried about me. I hope they didn’t hurt her.”

“Nah, man,” I assure him, “Tiff’s doing fine. I got Philly Mako and some boys over there watching out for her. Go ahead and call her if you want to. Might make her feel better.”

“They busted into my aunt’s house.” There’s a sort of metallic ring to the words as Sam speaks them. “Fuckin’ Smoke Money assholes wearing masks. Said they’d shut down the Brotherhood. Said they came to even the score. I ran for it. Went out the back.”

“That’s right, man,” Deep’s sounding nervous, watching Sam closely. “Did what you had to do. Can’t keep your boys alive if you yourself end up dead. You did good, son.”

For the rest of the ride Sam talks quietly with Tiff. We don’t spot a single cop on the way home, which is good. I’m itching to get the Lincoln parked in MadBlack’s garage for the night in case anyone took down my plates and went to the police with them. Unlikely, due to the speed of the shoot-out, but I don’t feel like taking chances. We get into the house and find MadBlack in the kitchen, sipping some orange juice. I fill him in on what went down at Thunder Gate. He nods as I tell him, after he instructs Deep Kut to make some sandwiches for us. Food calms the nervous system he tells us, keeps the body busy so it worries less.

Author’s Notes: Late post again, but next post goes up December 9th

Yukon Blood

It doesn’t take too long for us to locate the library. I’m not sure exactly which bush Sam’s hiding under, so I send Deep Kut out after him while I wait inside the car at the curb with the lights off and the engine idling. Deep isn’t too thrilled to be chosen for this duty, but he knows better than to argue with me right now, keeping his displeasure restrained to a disappointed tightening of his lips. I don’t blame him for getting huffy because the library’s exterior has next to no lighting. He’s going to have to walk around, calling Sam’s name as softly as possible.

As I wait, I see a vehicle headed towards me. An SUV. When it’s almost on me, I can tell it’s a Yukon. My nerves fire off rapidly, instinct driving me to reach for the .45 I’m carrying down the front of my jeans. I don’t make eye contact with the driver, but I’m pretty sure these are the same thugs who were sent for Sam. They roll right past me, and in the rear view mirror I can see them round the corner of Rosewood, heading away from the library. I exhale in relief. For a moment there, I worried those dudes might spot either me, Sam or Deep Kut and decide to blow off a few rounds at us for good measure. After all, they’re probably stoned out of their minds on free SMF dope they got for taking this job.

Minutes later, I see a couple dark shapes emerging from behind the library. Deep Kut’s got his hand in the front pocket of his hoodie, holding his pistol, walking faster than he normally would. Sam’s dreadlocks frame his face, but I can see his shaken expression from here. Poor kid. This is a lot for a young dude to handle. I doubt he realizes yet how lucky he is to be alive. He must be half-frozen in his baggy camo pants and wife-beater. Even though it’s above freezing right now, the wind’s active. That alone will chill you to the bone in Seattle.

I, too, experience a chill when I see the Yukon coming back around the block, apparently making another pass by the library. Sam and Deep Kut spot the vehicle, as well, and they freeze like deer on the library’s lawn. The Yukon’s speeding up. As I watch, I see one window, on the side closest to me, rolling down. Deep Kut yells something I can’t hear and both of them drop to a crouch, their guns flashing in the light from the street lamps.

Everything begins to flow by in slow motion for me at this point. I’ve lived through situations similar to this so I’m experiencing a strange sort of deja vu as I unfasten my seatbelt, jumping out of the car. If I could hear anything beyond the thudding of my own heart, I’d hear the booming that accompanies the bright flashes erupting from the pistols being held out the SUV’s side windows. Dirt sprays up from the lawn around my two boys and clots of grass jump into the air. I’ve got my gun raised. I fire several shots, in rapid succession, at the front windshield of the vehicle. I can see the side of the Yukon taking the bullets from my friends, but I’m too busy hoping they’ll scramble for my car to hope any of their shots are accurate.

“Get in the fuckin’ car!” I’m screaming full force, “Now! Move!”

I can’t see Sam or Deep, but I figure they’re making their way towards our ride now. Just then, I spot the barrel of a shotgun swinging out of the driver’s side window. One of the men has crawled up over the dead driver and trying to aim at me. That one takes a couple rounds from me and the shotgun falls back into the vehicle, never having been fired. Two pistols bounce off the pavement next, their owners hanging partway out the side window of the Yukon, blood rushing down over its white paint job. Taking a quick glance towards the library’s lawn, I see Sam. He looks like a character in some ghetto movie. He’s stalking towards the vehicle, gun arm outstretched, firing shot after shot into the Yukon. For a moment, I’m in awe of his sheer backbone. He shows zero fear. Then I realize he’s still pulling the trigger, but no flashes come from the weapon’s muzzle. He’s out of ammo.

Deep Kut’s coming up behind Sam, springing onto his back and bringing him down hard into the grass. More shots ring out from the SUV. I spot one of the SMF assholes with a bandanna tied over the lower half of his face walking out from behind the rear of the vehicle. Two of my rounds leave him lying on the street. I repeat my order for Deep and Sam to get in the Lincoln so we can get the hell out of here. Now they’re scrambling up and running towards our car. Once they’re in I get back in, too.

“You two hurt?” I ask them, stomping the gas to squeal off, rocketing us away from the scene. “Anybody need a doctor?”

“We’re okay,” Deep offers from the backseat. “Nothin’ hit us. We’re cool.”

Sam’s staring into space, his eyes dark with shock.

“Gonna be okay, Sam, don’t you worry,” I’m vibrating from the adrenaline rush. “We got away this time, no more–”

Author’s Note: Late again! Still sticking with the every 3 days schedule.. trying to get back on track after personal crisis. Thank you for reading.